Project REDWOOD: A Deadly Premonition Novelization
by Animagess
Summary: A full-length retelling of the entire game, in novel form. Join York, Zach, Emily and the other residents of Greenvale as the search for Anna's killer begins... Reviews would be amazing! Chapter 52: MILK BARN up.
1. chapter 00: Red Room

** Project REDWOOD: A Deadly Premonition Fan Novelization  
**

Just finished the game. Now, I'm going to novelize it in its entirety. Things will be changed and embellished upon- the combat sections in the game will get a particularly severe overhaul, as do many of the sidequests- but the narrative core shall remain the same. Hope you enjoy this tasty lunch. It's so much more than a... aw, forget it.

Check out my fansite **Planet Redwood** for more Deadly Premonition stuff!

(remove *s)  
**http:/*planetredwood.*webs.*com/**

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**CHAPTER 00: RED ROOM**

**TIME AND LOCATION: ?  
WEATHER REPORT: ?  
FORTUNE: "Expectations are premeditated resentments."**

_Red. All around me, red. Red leaves under my feet, red leaves fluttering through the air. I'm standing in a crimson clearing, red trees as far as the eye can see. Various pieces of furniture of no particular style or era are scattered around me in a rough circle, lit by a crystal chandelier suspended from nothingness and the uneasy glow of a television screen off to my left. A closed door made of some cold, dark substance stands isolated in its frame, without floor or ceiling to support it._

_ And in the center of all this, two little boys dressed in white robes, white wings and haloes sit whispering endlessly to each other as if I'm not there._

_ Or am I here, Zach? Where are we?_

_ Zach?_

_ Remember when we dissected that rat in biology class? That was quite an experience. The formaldehyde should have rendered the corpse bloodless, but I remember cutting it open and seeing its heart, still beating, bright red. That's what this room reminds me of, Zach: A beating heart, holding me in its rhythmic pulse, like being back in the womb._

_ It'd almost be soothing, if it weren't for that creepy stuffed deer head mounted on the mantelpiece over there. _

_ As I watch, the head turns and regards me silently, as if waiting for me to do something. On cue, one of the twins speaks up in a clear, ringing voice, and I notice for the first time that they are not exactly the same: One of them is glowing faintly blue, and the other gives off a soft green light. Aside from this, their sandy brown hair, their eyes, their mannerisms, are exactly alike._

_ "Could you wait just a little longer?" one of them implores me. _

_ "It will begin soon..." says the other._

_ Their smiles are identical. I shrug. Waiting implies the expectation of future events, and when time is meaningless, there is no future and thus no expectation. You taught me that once, Zach. I thought it was pretty deep. A clock on the mantelpiece below the deer head seems to agree with our theory, spinning its hands around at impossible speeds as if driven mad for lack of purpose. I turn away and begin to examine some of the paraphernalia on the table next to me._

_ ...Hmm, interesting. A map of the United States of America, with a strange symbol repeated in red over various states. Over here, standing on Washington, a little plastic doll of a jolly-looking fat man in coveralls and yellow flannel._

_ Make anything of this, Zach?_

_ Yeah, me neither._

_ Just as I make a move to pick up the doll to examine it further, the twins speak again._

_ "Sorry to keep you waiting," the blue angel says._

_ "It's about time to get started," the green angel says._

_ The black door opens silently on its hinges. Beyond it, a thick purple cloud billows and swirls ominously, threatening to spill out of the frame at any moment. Obviously we're meant to go through it. Red leaves crunch as I step forward, not hesitating for a moment. I don't know what the significance of this is yet, Zach, and I'm sure you don't either. But I figure we're not going to find out by hanging around any longer than we have to._

_ So, let's get out of here. The murder took place out in the country this time, Zach. We'll take it slow._

_ The door beckons, the deer head nods. One step, and we're out. The twins are laughing in unison. Then the door shuts behind us, and all is silent..._

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Reviews would be... amazing!


	2. chapter 01: Meet and Greet

In which York sucks at multitasking, and Greenvale sends an (un)welcome party.

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**CHAPTER 01: MEET AND GREET**

**TIME AND LOCATION: 05:36, mountain highway  
WEATHER REPORT: Heavy rain and thunderstorms  
FORTUNE: "Tomorrow, you'll arrive in a place that will change your fate."**

"...Sure, that's one way of looking at it. But your theory is totally flawed."

FBI Special Agent Francis York Morgan powers his custom-built Ford Mustang through the rain-slick mountain roads, as if the perils of driving at such speeds up here are the product of some parallel dimension where death is a dim possibility at best. The fact that his focus is currently divided across three distinct pieces of technology- the steering wheel of his car, the laptop sitting open on the seat beside him, and the cell phone lodged between his head and shoulder- is further indication that his attention has gone where roads cannot follow.

"...Listen, it's called "inter-dependency". They both need each other. ...Yeah, he does terrible things to Tom... Nasty, sadistic things. But have you ever considered that might just be what Tom wants?"

While York peers ahead into the sheet of rain, his right hand reaches down to the laptop's keyboard as if under orders from a power higher than its owner. The screen calls up images of bright red splatters on walls, carpets, expensive furniture. People sprawled with dark stains on their clothes, dark smears around their mouths, eyes staring at nothing. They are photos taken from the scenes of many crimes, too many, all depicting the same unhappy ending.

"Consider Tom's actions. He's always asking for it. It's his partner's job to fulfill that need, and Jerry knows it."

One photo in particular shows a handful of small, elongated pods, the seeds of some sort of plant, scattered across a hardwood surface. They, too, are the color of blood. There is nothing in these photos, even the black and white ones, that is not ultimately related to the color of blood.

The cell phone conversation continues above the escalating intensity of the storm.

"You want proof? Well, first of all, they're a cat and a mouse. Yet they continue to live with each other. If that's not conclusive proof of a mutual relationship, then I- Hello? Hello!"

Agent York pulls the now silent phone away from his ear, shakes his head. "Zach, l can't believe the bureau still can't get me a satellite phone," he mutters, tossing it onto the seat next to the laptop.

Without conversation to distract him, York's thoughts inevitably turns to the assignment at hand. The subject matter is always the same, but the particulars tend to differ. For example, location. When it comes to these particular murders, it seems lightning never strikes twice; although the culprit- if indeed it is the same individual committing these deeds- will have to start repeating states if he is not apprehended soon.

This latest death has York headed towards a little town called Greenvale, not far from Seattle, a place he would have never even heard of if not for the path of the crimes he's been tracking for the last year or so. Another variable: The victim. When it comes to homicide, ruling out reincarnation, the victim is never the same person from case to case. This time, it's a young woman, Anna Graham. Beloved by all, felled in the prime of her youth by a degenerate of society.

At least, that's the simple version of the story. York's heard it many times. It's what they put on the front page of the newspapers so people can shake their heads and confirm that the world is going to hell in a hand basket. It's York's job to look past the headlines, to decipher the patterns that will lead to the truth.

After a moment's rummaging through the glove compartment, York pulls out a plastic evidence bag and holds it up to the watery light coming in through the windows. Three red seeds lie at the bottom. York knows they are not quite as innocuous as they look, though some of his colleagues might beg to differ.

"Looks like these puppies are making me go all the way out to the boondocks again," he sighs. "Well, I'll be a happy camper, even if it ends up being a waste of time. What do you think, Zach? It'll be nice to get out of the cramped city for a while."

There is a pause. Then York says, "No, I doubt this'll be anything like our last case. There won't be any Catwoman wannabes with razors laced into their nails out here, at least I hope not. One battle scar is enough for me."

He winces at the memory, then laughs, resisting the urge to glance at himself in the mirror. He doesn't need to look, anyway, he knows what he'll see: Close-cropped dark hair, green eyes, fairly symmetrical features. Maybe a bit of stubble; he's been driving almost non-stop for the last day and a half. The series of scratches healing under his left eye is a new feature, though. At least it makes it easier for photographers to tell which is the good side of his face.

"In some circles, Zach, it'd be considered a badge of honor." He digs out a pack of cigarettes and taps one out, eyes flitting from the road to the laptop screen. "Crazy. Just crazy..."

Thunder rumbles in the near distance. York reaches into his suit pocket and pulls out a lighter. He had bought it very innocently from a gift shop somewhere, years ago, during one of his first assignments. Only later did he notice the red non-smoking symbol printed on one side, someone's ironic joke, no doubt. Since then, he's treasured it far longer than a cheap plastic lighter ought to be.

"Women... " York mumbles around the unlit cigarette in his mouth. "They're crazy. Don't you agree, Zach?" The lighter won't work, no matter how hard he flicks the wheel. He tries technique over force, putting a bit of fancy whipping action into his wrist. The lighter stays dead.

Just as York turns his head to give it a reproachful glance, something dark and hulking in the middle of the road catches the light of his high beams and snaps his attention forward like a football being put into play. It looms for a few seconds in his windshield, a stocky red form with glowing eyes, and that's all the first impressions York can make before he wrenches the steering wheel sideways and sends his car off the side of the road and into the dark forest below.

Branches snap across the hood of the Mustang, punishment for this violent incursion into their leafy territory. York struggles for control, lips still clamped around his cigarette. He feels like he might have a chance of slowing down before he feels something slamming into him from below, then a slow-motion vertigo in his gut as his car flips upside down and slides several feet down the mountain with its tires spinning helplessly in the air. Finally, a tree trunk halts its momentum with a crunch of metal on wood.

A short interval ensues, in which a family of squirrels whose lives had been endangered by the thundering impact of York's' car scamper towards the wreckage, chattering angrily. Then they are gone, and the rain continues to fall.

A few seconds later, the car's interior lights dutifully activate as the passenger side door is flung open, the driver's side having been blocked by a fallen log. The laptop gets pushed out first, landing with a wet plop, then the cell phone; finally, York himself crawls out into the mud and darkness of his Mustang's final resting place. Of all the casualties, York is the least harmed. And, hey, now the lighter is working! York smiles grimly and puts it away without using it. He's already soaked to the bone, and it's not even time for breakfast yet.

After a brief eulogy for his car (the phone and the laptop get nothing; neither York nor Zach has any special sentiment towards these particular machines), York starts walking. In a matter of minutes, he finds himself on what looks like a crude pathway through the forest. His direction is confirmed when he encounters a wooden road sign, the letters worn and faded but still announcing his arrival into "G... RE... N... V... LE." He is on the right track.

"I don't want to count my blessings too quickly, Zach, but I'd say this is a pretty good stroke of fortune. We didn't even need coffee to make it happen, either-"

York's ebullience is cut short by a strangled yelp, somewhere off to his right. York freezes, listening. His gun has somehow made it to his hand without his noticing, and now the yelps are getting louder, more protracted, until abruptly, they stop. There is a slight rustle of movement, then the sounds of the rain rise up to cover any lesser noises. York advances around a bend in the path, gun held at the ready. He can feel Zach nudging him forward, a comforting pressure; the danger must have passed for now. Still, there was something unnatural about the regularity of those screams...

Lightning flashes. The split-second illumination reveals a dead dog lying across the path, rivulets of freshly spilled blood mixing with the rain and dirt at York's feet.

"Zach! Look at this!" It's a harsh whisper, York's composure beginning to fray slightly. It's not the corpse that bothers him, or even the idea that the killer might be in close proximity to his own; no, there is something else going on here, something connected to his current assignment. York feels the connections winding deep into his bones, deeper even than the black chill of the weather, and he knows Zach feels it too.

Still, the middle of a storm is no place to start a profiling. York hurries onwards, slipping slightly in the undergrowth choking the path. Something strange about the plants here, York thinks; in the dim beam of his flashlight, they look almost like red tendrils. Perhaps it's some foreign strain that somehow made it to America, and is now intent on blotting out the local flora. York's no botanist, but he's read articles on the subject. Amazing stuff.

Zach rings alarm bells in his head; preoccupied, York has almost run right past the dilapidated shack standing desolately in the clearing to his left, wire fences criss-crossing the area. He takes quick stock of the place. There's a generator in the shack, still functional, and a door in the fence outside with an electronic lock. Automated doors, a sure sign of the civilized world! Zach shares York's renewed enthusiasm for Project Get-the-hell-out-of-Spookywood, and neither of them notice the lone figure shuffling up the path towards them as York huddles next to the generator, flipping switches and turning dials with his back to the open door.

"This is a pretty fancy set-up for such a small town, Zach, but I think I can get it to unlock. Why would they build such an elaborate barrier around here, anyway? Maybe it's bear proof or something. Well, it's not like we're dealing with HAL 9000 here, although that would be _incredible_. Imagine, being able to talk directly to that fence outside. We could have simply asked it to open up for us, without all this button-pushing. Though, we both know how that movie ended, so maybe this is the better method for humanity's sake. Still, nobody ever cares about the fence's opinion of things. Think of the questions we could ask it. Zach, what would you ask the fence if you had the cha-"

Something falls off a shelf behind him and clatters to the floor. Startled, York turns around. There's a woman standing on the threshold, as drenched as he is, long dark hair falling forward over her downturned face. She's wearing a floral print dress, the thin fabric sticking to her pale limbs and revealing intimate details of her body that York would be embarrassed to catch sight of in public. But here, in these dark, pre-dawn woods, it's clear she needs help.

Her arms are covered in mud, so it takes York a moment to realize that some of the dark streaks are wounds, deep gashes cut into her flesh. He stands up, hand extended in concern, until she raises her face and tries to bite him with a toothless maw that is nothing more than a bloody Muppet-like gap where her lips should be.

York stumbles back against the generator, pistol aimed between his would-be attacker's gaping eye sockets. Zach tells him now would be a good time to shoot, so he shoots, the woman's head rolling loosely on her shoulders, absorbing the impact. She starts moving towards him, writhing unpleasantly and flinging drops of purplish goo everywhere, a hideous moan emerging from the depths of that ragged excuse for a face. It's harder than it should be to draw a bead on her; something about her movements, so unnatural, it's like she's sliding between mirrored plates. He puts another bullet down her throat and suddenly, as if he'd activated a switch inside her, the moans turn into English:

"I dooooon't waaaaant to diiiiie," the woman-thing seems to howl, before she falls flailing to the ground, black tar dribbling from her mouth. Her body heaves without any coherent rhythm until it is consumed by a dark purple mist that bubbles over her without warning. Eventually, this too fades away.

A smell lingers in the air that York is unable to describe within the current limits of human language. He puts two fingers to his temple and closes his eyes, willing his pulse rate to drop to manageable levels.

"Zach. That was no Catwoman, but it definitely takes the cake for one of the crazier things that have happened to us on assignment. It's the first time I've been attacked so directly... What do you think that was?"

York stands there with his hand raised, then drops it and sighs. "Never mind, don't answer. Life is fun because of the mysteries, right, Zach? It's like putting ketchup on your pancakes. Nobody expects it."

He slams his palm down on the generator console without looking. Somewhere, out in the downpour, a red light turns green. York reloads with practiced efficiency, then steps back out under a gradually lightening sky. He feels strangely lightheaded, almost exhilarated, as the metal door blocking the way to his destination slides open, revealing the way.

Once on the other side of the fence, he comes across a similar sign, this one protected from the elements by a small wooden enclosure. On this one, the letters are clear.

"'Welcome to Greenvale'," York reads aloud. "Sounds like a victory, Zack. And first prize is a hot shower and warm hotel bed. Let's get going!"

He holsters the gun and begins walking rapidly, but without too much hurry, towards the growing light between the trees. The purple smell has evaporated from his nostrils, replaced with the heavy gray odor of wet soil and vegetation. Even his encounter with the dead dog seems far away now, like the dead cell phone lying in the mud at the site of his accident. He can't help but grin at his unwarranted good mood, and picks up his pace.

Somewhere off the path a bird begins to sing, prematurely, in advance of the end of the storm. Soon, the rain, too, will become a fine mist and seep back into the earth.

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Reviews would be... Nice!


	3. chapter 02: Bridge Party

In which York does not make a favourable first impression.

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**CHAPTER 02: BRIDGE PARTY**

**TIME AND LOCATION: 07:36, bridge into town  
WEATHER REPORT: Overcast, light showers  
FORTUNE: "You will meet your destiny on one bridge, and burn two."**

Deputy Sheriff Emily Wyatt is sitting in the passenger seat of a police van parked on the side of the bridge, wishing she had some music to listen to, when she spots someone walking towards her about a hundred yards away. She squints through the light drizzle, the remains of what had been an all-out thunderstorm just twenty minutes ago, then snorts when she realizes that this must be the man they've been waiting for. She jumps out and leans against the side of the car with her arms folded, trying to make an impression despite the water seeping into her uniform.

"Well, you are very late," she says as the man approaches her, looking bedraggled but walking with an easy, untroubled step. "I didn't think you'd keep us waiting in the rain for so long."

To her amazement, the guy pulls his badge and flashes it in her face. "FBI Special Agent Francis York Morgan," he recites with rapid precision. "Please, call me York. That's what everyone calls me."

Emily hesitates under this sudden onslaught of syllables. "Agent... York?"

The man doesn't smile, but seems pleased anyway. "Good, that's good. Are you the sheriff?"

"Oh, no, I'm the deputy. George is the sheriff. He went looking for you, actually. Come to think of it, I should radio in and let him know you're here-"

"I'd appreciate that." He turns abruptly away from her and stares out at the river flowing under the bridge, its banks partially submerged due to the torrential rainfall over the past few hours. Emily isn't the sort of person that gets easily flustered, or at least she'd like to think so, but she's not quite sure what to make of this... situation. She calls George, an activity that is over all too soon, and then she is alone on the bridge with the agent.

"If you don't mind me asking, Agent, ah, York... Did you walk all the way here? You're soaking wet."

"My car broke down."

After it becomes obvious that he isn't going to elaborate, Emily gives up the small talk. The two of them stand there on the bridge, like two ghosts unaware of each other's presence. The silence seems unbearably awkward to Emily, but she also realizes that the feeling is probably one-sided. York seems perfectly content to simply stare into space, lips pursed, brow slightly furrowed.

As they wait, she sneaks sidelong glances at him, even though she could probably be breathing down his neck and he wouldn't notice. His suit is rumpled and muddy, and there's a weird smell coming off him in waves; not exactly unpleasant, both foreign and familiar at the same time. His eyes, gazing out at the river, are the most remarkable thing about him: They are strangely intense, the only clue that there might be something else going on behind that officious demeanor. And the facial scar is intriguing, of course, although given that her boss sports a similar past injury, it's easy not to be shocked. Even so, it does give rise to questions that she doubts she will ever have the opportunity to ask.

Otherwise, though, he seems like a bland, overbearing urban type, just who George had predicted would show up. The way he pushed that badge in her face- Yeesh. She's had enough of that kind of man from her father.

Mercifully, George arrives on the scene to rescue Emily from York's conversational purgatory. Unfortunately, it all goes downhill from there.

"I'm George Woodman. Sheriff of Greenvale," George introduces himself. He's wearing his usual outfit, and his usual expression: Black cowboy hat, leather jacket and boots, perpetually scowling eyes, dark mustache falling on either side of an equally downturned mouth. The gold star on his broad chest looks silver in the early morning light.

He blinks when York practically shoves his badge up his nose.

"FBI Special Agent Francis York Morgan. Please, just call me York. It's what everyone calls me."

Emily tries to hide her incredulity. George already looks pissed. He starts stalking around York, as if the agent were a deer whose head might look good on his office wall.

"Mind telling me why the FBI is so interested in a small town homicide?" George growls. "Your supervisor was a little short on the details."

"Let's just say I've got a personal interest in killers of young women, " York replies, seemingly oblivious to the hostility mounting around him. "I'm always looking for new sample cases to help me with my profiling. You know what that is, don't you?"

Emily and George look at each other with raised eyebrows. York goes on without waiting for a response.

"My presence here has been cleared with both our superiors. You can remain in charge, for now. I hope this isn't a problem for you."

"No, no problem," George says, every facial tic expressing the contrary. "I just want to get one thing straight. I'll admit, our small town has its share of troubles. I've been working here for years, fixing them one by one, maintaining peace and order. You can have your profiling sample, but I need you to understand this: You aren't from around here. You don't know Greenvale like we do."

He nods at Emily, who feels a sort of pride, united with George against this interloper. It makes her feel like she's a part of something larger than herself; even though she's been a Greenvale deputy for almost three years now, sometimes it's like she still doesn't belong. It's been this way every since she was young, even back in Seattle among her friends and family. But next to Agent York, she's a perfect fit.

George continues lecturing. "That's the kind of knowledge that a couple of days, even weeks or months, won't buy. You won't get very far if you don't follow our lead."

York lights a cigarette, exhales cancerous smoke into the clear mountain air. Emily wrinkles her nose; George just scowls.

"Of course, of course." York nods cordially, then changes the subject. "Oh, by the way, George, I had a little... accident with my car. Could you send someone to take care of it? My clothes and luggage are still inside."

"Yeah. Don't worry. I'll get my assistant Thomas to take care of it." George looks annoyed at this unannounced shift in tone.

The three start heading towards the van. George puts the vehicle between himself and York and calls across the hood, sarcasm dripping from his voice.

"Is there anything else you need?"

"Thanks. That'll be all. I'll rest up at the hotel, and then I can join you on your investigation."

To Emily, he makes it sound like a proposition to become a member of their weekend paintballing team. Like it's a sport. George can't seem to resist; he snaps, "Don't know how to say this, but we really don't need your help, Agent _Morgan_. I don't know what kind of corrupt incompetence you have to put up with every day in the big city, but out here, we play it by the book. I hope you'll come to appreciate that."

Agent York says nothing, expressionless. George leans back, getting comfortable with his scorn.

"Just let us handle the investigation. Relax, take it easy. You don't have to be a damn tree hugger to enjoy the nature around these parts. Think of it as a vacation."

With that, George gets behind the wheel, and Emily rides shotgun. They wait for York to climb into the back, humbled by George's words, but instead he stands motionless outside the van, two fingers to his temples, apparently deep in thought. Emily can't be sure, but it looks like his lips are moving.

Feeling George about to explode beside her, Emily opens her door and shouts "Agent York, we should get a move on! Polly was expecting you half an hour ago!"

They watch as York comes slowly out of his reverie, or whatever it is, then turn towards the van with an odd look on his face.

"Sorry," he says as he clambers into the backseat, rainwater dripping from his tie onto the floor. "I was just thinking over the events of this morning. I know you don't want me telling you your job, but there's definitely something going on in this town."

"And what makes you say that, Agent York?" says Emily. "You haven't even set foot in Greenvale yet."

"My coffee warned me about it."

The forty minute drive back to the hotel seems impossibly long, and nothing further is exchanged between the three people in the van. Agent York has the final word after all.

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Reviews would be... Fantastic!


	4. chapter 03: Breakfast at Polly's

In which York must talk in all caps.

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**CHAPTER 03: BREAKFAST AT POLLY'S**

**TIME AND LOCATION: ?  
WEATHER REPORT: ?  
FORTUNE: "A secret will float upon dark, tasty waters."**

_We're back in the red, Zach. I know what that means in an financial sense, but here? It simply describes what I'm looking at. A red corridor this time, cutting through a forest of red trees, leaves forming a crimson carpet. I'm walking towards another of those free-standing metal doors when a man pops up in front of me. Well, maybe "pop" is the wrong word. It's more like he boils up out of the ground, a dark purple mist accompanying his rather melodramatic entrance. At any rate, his condition is strikingly similar to that of the unfortunate young woman we met in the forest after our car crashed. _

_ Remember, Zach? How pale she was, the cuts on her arms and legs, that awful mouth? And that moaning howl she gave when I killed her. _

_ ...No, I guess you're right, Zach. You can't kill what's already dead. And these... things, whatever they are, certainly can't be classified as "living" in the biological sense of the term._

_ At any rate, there's another of them blocking the path to the door. He- It- wears a stained lumberjack's outfit. Its eyes, the dark places where there ought to be eyes, lock onto mine. I look around for a way to get past it, but the only course of movement is backwards, away from the door, and of course I don't want that. But it's coming towards me, forcing me to retreat. I back up, nowhere else to go, when I feel something tugging at the hem of my jacket._

_ I look down. There is a small dark-haired boy by my side, hauntingly familiar, though I can't seem to place him no matter how I try. His pajamas are blue with pictures of moons and rocket ships printed all over. He's barefoot, too, but it doesn't seem to bother him. His large grey eyes peer earnestly into mine, and when he speaks, it's in quite a different tone then that of the twins from the clearing. Where their voices rang like bells, his is like a small animal scratching at the door, begging to be let out._

_ "York! York!" he says, tugging my jacket. "Hold your breath! They can't see you if you hold your breath!"_

_ I comply, mimicking him as he puts one small hand over his nose and mouth. His other hand reaches for mine, and thus linked, he begins to lead me towards the bloody figure jerking spasmodically in the middle of the path._

_ As we start to move past it, the creature's head begins to sway back and forth, as if questing for something. I can hear the bones in its neck grinding savagely against each other. My heart is pounding in my chest, a red bird in a white cage fighting to get out. This time, it's different. I'm unarmed and vulnerable, and this is not my home court. The little boy's hand feels too small, almost insubstantial... It's like he might as well not have been there. Am I being abandoned? Is he fading, or am I? My vision blurs in and out of focus in time with my pulse. He's slipping away. No. Don't leave! _

_ And as soon as I have the thought, I feel his tiny hand squeeze tighter around mine._

_ We are moving. So. Slowly. It seems to take an eternity. Just when I think my lungs are about to give out, we are past the danger, and we can breath freely again._

_ The little boy watches me as I bend over, panting with fear and exertion. He doesn't say another word, not even when I ask "Who are you?", desperate for an answer. Instead of replying, he simply opens the door for me and smiles. The smile is heartbreaking to me for reasons I can't explain. Reluctantly, I walk past him and step through the door. Just as I'm turning around to say goodbye, I_

wake up in a hotel room with late morning light spilling through the window onto my face.

I lie there for a moment, assessing the situation. When I'm convinced that I am in fact awake, I sit up on the edge of the bed. You light a cigarette for me as I take in my surroundings. The walls are covered in wooden paneling, finished with a handsome dark varnish, and most of the furniture is wooden, too. The ceiling is a little high for my tastes, but the tasteful decor and manner of furnishing gives the room a cozy, lived-in feel. There are framed prints of butterflies and flowers in faded pastel all over the place, and a fireplace that looks like it's been well-tended over the years. I catch myself looking above it for a deer head, but thank god there are no stuffed animals here.

The best part, however, is the bed I'm sitting on. It's so enormous, so soft and inviting, that I feel like I'm getting spoiled just by putting my head on the pillow. I usually pride myself for being able to fall asleep anywhere, but who knows how I'll feel about another mattress after having slept in this queen-sized beauty.

In fact, the only thing wrong with my sleep last night are these dreams I've been having. Zach, the weird symbolism continues to intensify. Red trees, red leaves... The connection to the seeds I've been collecting is unmistakable, but dreams aren't usually so obvious. Of course I would dream about red trees. So what, you might ask? No, it's that little boy that worries me... I swear I've seen him before. I just can't remember where.

Well, it'll probably come back to me eventually. For now, we need coffee.

To the cafeteria, then!

I change into business attire (Emily was kind enough to point me to a dry cleaners for my other suit, which did not handle the events of the storm too well, I'm afraid), shave, and walk out into the hallway. The carpeting is worn but clean, and it's so quiet I can almost hear the birds chirping outside. Black and white photographs of the town's history line the walls; I pass a peaceful shot of a calm lake, a stack of cut logs in a lumber yard, and an old man with a straw hat and a pitchfork standing on a bale of hay. The images make me feel the kind of faux-nostalgia you get when you miss something you've never had in the first place.

I keep walking. This place is huge for the number of guest that are probably registered. You know what this hotel reminds me of, Zach? I'll give you a hint: "Heeeere's _Johnny_!" Of course, that line could have only been delivered by Jack Nicholson in The Shining. 1980, classic Kubrick. I didn't know this at first, but apparently people hated this movie when it first came out. Critics claimed it was too slow, and not scary at all. Now it's one of the top-rated horror films of all time. Well maybe people really do have the power to change.

For some reason, this makes me think of our encounter on the bridge with the shining stars of Greenvale's police force. It wasn't an entirely charmless ordeal- Deputy Wyatt was certainly easy on the eyes, definitely worth a trip to the primitive world- but her boss... Well. I don't want to be so judgmental this early in the day. Suffice to say that there are no cavemen around here. We're as far forward as the Medieval ages, and I think we've already met the King.

Oh, and Zach? Let's not mention anything of what happened after the accident. They'll think you're a psycho.

I find my way to the front desk, located in a spacious lobby off the main hallway. Polly Oxford, the hotel owner, perks up when she spots me.

"Mr. Morgan! Did you have a good rest?"

I met Polly briefly when the sheriff dropped me off yesterday, but I was so tired that there wasn't much time to introduce myself. Now I can start getting to know the locals. I nod towards her and smile.

"Wonderful, Polly. The beds here are incredible."

Polly cups her hand behind her ear. Zach, she's must be pushing seventy by now, but her eyes behind those spectacles of hers are bright and lively as a sparrow's. Her white hair is pulled back into a bun, and looking at her gives me the same sensation I had out in the hallway with those old photographs.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Morgan. You said you were starving? Breakfast comes free with the room."

"That's not exactly what I said, but I am pretty hungry."

"Then right this way, Mr. Morgan. It's ready to be served in the cafeteria."

And before I know it, I'm sitting across from her on the opposite side of the longest dinner table I've ever seen. They don't have tables like this at the Ritz-Carlton. The tablecloth is linen white, freshly washed, from the look of it. And the food... Amazing. Again, score one for the Great Deer Yard Hotel over pretty much any other fancy schmancy lodgings I've ended up staying at throughout my career.

I try to tell Polly all of this, but there must be half a mile of table between us, and my voice coupled with her hearing isn't enough to do the job.

"I said, my compliments to the chef!" I practically holler at her.

"Oh, thank you, Mr. Morgan! I'm hoping my cooking will bring back repeat guests. Honestly, though, it's been a while since anyone has stayed here."

I hesitate to mention that it's a little hard to ignore, what with the long, silent corridors and the twenty or so other tables in the cafeteria that aren't being used. In fact, it almost feels like I'm the only guest here. A shame, really. Her cooking is fantastic.

"Please don't be offended, Polly, but I did notice a conspicuous lack of workers around here. Surely you can't be the only one in charge of running this place."

Polly cocks her head, then points to something in the middle of the table. "The salt's in that white shaker over there," she says brightly.

"Thank you." I raise my voice. "I was wondering if there were any other guests or workers here?"

"Oh no, it's just me. My husband and I used to run the Great Deer Yard, but he's in heaven now."

"You've been alone here since then? Must be hard by yourself."

Polly titters like a schoolgirl. "Oh my. Mr. Morgan, you're embarrassing me!"

"IT MUST BE HARD TO RUN A HOTEL BY YOURSELF."

"Well, yes, I suppose... I could just live on my pension, but I have to admit, running this hotel seems to be in my blood. It's almost like a hobby!"

"That's nice." Okay, Zach, time to bring out the heavy artillery. "Polly, it might help to hear you better if you could sit a little closer."

She laughs again, a cheery sound like the peal of wind chimes in the breeze. "So early in the day, too! I think I'm a little too old for you. And besides, I still love my Frederick, may God rest his soul." She wags a playful finger in my direction. "I appreciate the invitation, but I'm fine over here. Besides, it won't do to be all clumped together with all this space around!"

Just when I feel like I'm starting to slip into some kind of verbal netherworld, she starts asking questions about my scar. Zach, her hearing may be poor, but she must have the eyes of a hawk.

"Just what have you been getting into?" she asks innocently.

"Let's just say I had some trouble during the last case I was working on. I'm sure it'll heal. It's just a flesh wound."

"Well, no need to play tough guy here, Mr. Morgan. I want you to be able to relax." Polly clasps her hands together, eyes shining. "That room I've prepared for you is special. A famous rock star once stayed there!"

"Thank you. I'm honored." We're not really interested in rock-and-roll, are we, Zach? Theme songs from animated kid's shows, especially the eighties and nineties, that's more our thing. But I am touched by the gesture.

I've almost finished eating. Polly asks if there's anything else I want to know, and I ask her a few questions about the town and the residents. She doesn't have much to offer that I'm not already aware of, but the conversation is pleasant and refreshing. I soak it up, knowing that the time will soon come to deal with the current case and all the ugliness that it entails. We must relish these moments while we can, Zach, or we run the risk of insanity.

All too soon, breakfast is over. Almost. Breakfast is a ritual, and like any ritual, we must observe the sacred rites.

"Well, Mr. Morgan, I'd better start cleaning up. You just take it easy. I'll bring you your coffee in a moment."

She gets out of her chair and begins puttering towards the kitchen. I raise a finger and she stops, head to one side.

"Polly," I say with utmost import. "I must warn you. I am _very_ particular about my coffee. The very best you have, please. It's... imperative."

Polly nods and disappears behind two swinging doors. A few minutes later, she returns with a white mug on a saucer and a pitcher of milk, which she sets almost reverently down in front of me. I'm pleased that she's taking this as seriously as I am. These country folk are pretty perceptive.

And now, the moment of truth. I pour the milk in steady, concentric circles, being careful not to disrupt any patterns that may already be forming on the surface of the liquid. I put the pitcher down and wait. Then I pick up the mug by the handle and stare attentively into it, breathing in the steam rising from the top. Jumbled words and images float into my mind, swirling about without context or meaning. I ignore them, let them float by. One in particular seems to snag on a corner of my mind. I probe at it. Yes, this might be what we're looking for. I can feel you with me, helping me dredge it up from the foamy depths. There's a rushing sound in my ears, as if I'm reversing out of a long dark tunnel.

And just like that, there it is. Two shapes, spiraling around and around inside the cup. The letters form slowly, creamy white on dark brown, and then it's unmistakable.

F...

K.

In the coffee.

"Zach! Do you see that? Clear as a crisp spring morning!" I laugh and snap my fingers. "I knew I could count on it. It never fails!"

"Mr. Morgan?" Polly ambles towards me, soap suds falling from her rubber gloves to the carpet. "Is something the matter? Who are you talking to?"

"Thank you for the coffee, Polly. It was superb."

"Oh? You enjoyed it that much? I'm flattered." Polly titters, then holds out a hand. "Would you like me to take your empty cup now?"

I raise the mug and point to it. "Actually I haven't drank any of it yet. But I assure you, it did the trick. Absolutely."

After a moment, with Polly looking on, I do drink the coffee. It's quite good. Rich and dark, with a complex aroma. Tastes a little like fate. I imagine FK swirling down my throat, soon to appear before me in the near future. It could be a person, place or thing, animal, vegetable or mineral. We'll just have to keep a close lookout for it, Zach.

And so ends our first real meal in Greenvale. It's almost nine. Time to go meet the king in his very own fortress stronghold. Castle Woodman, you might call it... But that sounds a little too romantic for our sheriff friend. What do you think?

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Review would be... incredible!


	5. chapter 04: Missing

In which a very brief manhunt ensues.

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**CHAPTER 04: MISSING**

**TIME AND LOCATION: 9:23, Greenvale Sheriff's Department  
WEATHER REPORT: Clear skies  
FORTUNE: "The key to your enlightenment lies in the curve of a tail."**

"He's late again," George complains, leaning back in his chair with his arms folded. "I can't believe the nerve of that guy."

"Me neither," Emily agrees. The two of them are sitting in the meeting room, waiting for Thomas to show up with the case files and hopefully Agent York in tow. Based on their first impressions of York and his behavior on the bridge, neither of them have a good feeling about how this conference is going to turn out. Maybe York had just been feeling out of sorts after having walked for two hours through a forest in the middle of a rainstorm. Emily supposes she can't blame him.

George grumbles, adjusting the wide brim of his hat. His hands are large and careworn, the hands of a hard worker. Emily has known George ever since she was in high school, but her opinions of him have changed since she joined the force a few years ago. At first, he'd scared her with his imposing stature and blunt manner of speech. Now that she's been made deputy, Emily is able to discern a good man inside him, a man who uses his strength for justice. He can still be a bit hardheaded, but he's always treated the other police officers with the utmost respect, even his assistant Thomas. They seem to get along just fine, despite the talk that goes around about Thomas sometimes.

"Emily, would you mind going out to the front and asking Thomas if he's seen Morgan?" George says. "Ask him if he's got the files on Anna's murder, too."

"Sure thing, boss."

Emily trots down the hall and checks the front lobby. Nobody there. She heads to the filing room next and pokes her head in.

"Thomas, what's going on? Have you seen Agent York yet?"

The sheriff's assistant looks pained. "I, uh, he's not in the waiting room?"

"You mean he's already here?"

Thomas gulps and adjusts his glasses. "Well, I, ah, lost the keys to the filing cabinet, so I told him to wait until I found them. It's taking a little longer than I thought, though... Maybe he went to the bathroom?"

Emily stops herself from rolling her eyes just in time. Thomas can be a bit of a space cadet, but he doesn't deserve the scorn he gets from some of the other officers. Instead, she says, "Well, forget the keys for now. We'd better find Agent York first, before he gets into any trouble."

"O-of course," Thomas stutters. He follows her out into the hallway, and the manhunt begins.

"I, ah, thought his name was Agent Morgan. That's what George told me to call him."

"Yes, well, I don't think George is overly fond of him. Can't say I am either, but I don't think we need to make this investigation any harder than it already is. We've got to be a little more flexible."

Thomas bobs his head nervously. "He showed me his badge and told me I could call him York, so I was a bit confused as to which name I should use. York or Morgan. It feels almost like taking sides, doesn't it, Emily?"

They check the materials room, the kitchenette, and even both washrooms. They ask one of the other officers coming up from the shooting gallery if they've seen York, but nobody they talk to has run into him. Finally, the security guard in the basement locates their rogue federal agent on one of the cameras posted all around the station. Emily and Thomas hurry upstairs to the locker room, unsure of what they'll find.

Agent York is standing in the corner next to George's workout equipment, staring fixedly at something in his right hand. The index and middle fingers of his other hand are pressed lightly against his temple, and he appears to be muttering to himself.

Emily stops one row of lockers away and crosses her arms. "Agent York, what are you doing in here? We have to review those case files."

Agent York turns to them with an infuriatingly mild expression, as if they've interrupted a telephone conversation he'd been having.

"Oh, hello, Emily. No need to introduce me to your assistant, we've already met." He nods at Thomas, who blushes furiously. "By the way, do either of you know who 'Arnold' might be?"

He's holding a dumbbell in his hand. "ARNOLD" is printed along the shaft in permanent marker. Thomas makes a little gasp.

"That's... George has been looking for that dumbbell for weeks! Where did you find it?"

"In the kitchenette, behind the recycling bin. I'm assuming Arnold is friends with Sylvester, here." He motions with his foot towards an identical weight in the corner, its name also printed in black.

Just then, George walks in, dark eyes flashing irritably.

"What the hell is going on in here? This isn't a Christmas party! We've got a murder to solve!"

"Well, uh, I, ah," Thomas says eloquently. Emily rescues him.

"I'm sorry, George. It seems Agent York here got a little restless and decided to wander off while Thomas went looking for the files. Isn't that right, York?"

York does not even have the grace to look abashed. "That's right, Emily. And of course, we wouldn't be having a Christmas party in the middle of summer."

Before the sheriff can say anything, York hefts Arnold in one hand and extends it towards George with a smile.

"I hear you've been looking for this, Sheriff Woodman. I happened upon it during my travels, so I'm glad you've shown up now to take it back into your custody."

George approaches the offering warily, taking the dumbbell from York's hand. He stares at it as if York's touch might have poisoned it somehow; then something seems to loosen in him. Emily can see his shoulders relaxing.

"Hmm... Well done, Agent Morgan," George says gruffly, putting Arnold back on the rack with the other equipment. Emily and Thomas look astonished. "I can finally get back to my regular workout routine, thanks to you."

"Thanks. I really admire that kind of consistency. Zach, remind me to get more exercise."

"Um... Yes. Anyway, we've wasted enough time," George says, leading the others out into the hall. "We need those files ASAP. Thomas?"

Before Thomas can open his mouth, York snaps his fingers. The others turn to look at him.

"Oh yes, one other thing. Here, Thomas, catch."

Thomas' large eyes grow even wider behind his glasses as York tosses something in his direction. Thomas fumbles it, recovers just in time. He holds up the object for all to see. A set of keys on a shiny metal keychain, embossed with a little silver squirrel.

"Ah! The keys to the filing cabinet! How-"

" I believe I'm correct in my deduction that the creature on that keychain is in fact a Southern Flying Squirrel," York says matter-of-factly. "The distinct pattern on its back is a dead giveaway. Yet, what's truly puzzling is that I found it on top of the toilet tank in the washroom. Perhaps it was storing nuts for the winter?"

"Oh, thank you, Agent Mor- I mean, York!"

Thomas exits the room like a schoolgirl whose secret crush has just given them a compliment about her hair. Emily turns to York, shaking her head in disbelief rather than disdain this time.

"How on earth do you do it? I mean, I know it's part of your profession, but where did you even know where to look? You've barely been here for half an hour."

York holds up a finger and gives a rather unsettling grin. "The training helps, as well as natural talent, but you know what they say: Two heads are better than one."

"I... don't think I've heard that expression used that way before."

"Okay, that's enough chitchat from both of you," George says loudly. "Agent Morgan, please come with us to the meeting room. Thomas should be back with Anna's files soon."

George turns on his heel and stalks off. Emily rushes to follow, not wanting George to think that she might be forming alliances with York. She can almost hear him smirking behind her, so self-satisfied. Certain that he's impressed these small town hicks into submission. The investigation will fall under his control more smoothly if the local law enforcement has stars in their eyes when they look at him.

It's not like her to be so petty about stuff like this, but something about the guy just rubs her the wrong way. He may have charmed Thomas, but Deputy Emily Wyatt will be a harder nut to crack, and George Woodman even more so. No matter what breed of squirrels are involved.

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Reviews would be... bullseye! Wait, what?


	6. chapter 05: The Case of Anna Graham

In which the facts are stated.

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**CHAPTER 05: THE CASE OF ANNA GRAHAM**

**TIME AND LOCATION: 9:41, Greenvale Sheriff's Department****  
WEATHER REPORT: Clear skies  
FORTUNE: "A good biscuit can be a dangerous thing."**

Castle Woodman certainly is not what I was expecting, Zach, at least from the outside. It actually does look fit for royalty. Spectacular woodwork, certainly one of the crowning achievements of the architects who have had their hands in Greenvale's construction. Although, I did hear from Polly and some of my early research that this town has quite an impressive clock tower as well. I hope that the surprises awaiting us on this case are confined to the scenery, but you're right. That's wishful thinking at best, a sloppy investigation waiting to happen at worst. Let's focus on the facts, then.

Deputy Wyatt reads to us aloud from Anna Graham's file, perched on the edge of the table where the four of us are seated. Besides me and the deputy, there's Sheriff Woodman and his assistant, Thomas MacLaine, the young fellow who welcomed me so warmly- if rather timidly- as I walked through the station's impressive oak doors. He's been bustling around for the last ten minutes, fetching papers and taking notes, _and_- this is the most crucial part- bringing out a tray of the most delicious cheese biscuits I have ever tasted in all my years as a federal agent. Oh my. To describe them in mere words would be an injustice.

I nibble in sheer ecstasy as Deputy Wyatt brushes back a stray lock of straw-colored hair and reads: "Anna Graham, the victim. Age 18, just recently graduated from high school this year. Her dream was to move out and become a model, but for the time being, she was working at the A&G Diner here in town. She lived with her mother, Sallie Graham, but her father died in a lumber mill accident when she was a child."

Beyond the fireworks my tastebuds are experiencing, Zach, let's take a look at these photos scattered all across the tabletop. It's not hard to see why Anna Graham might have been considering a career in modeling; if she had gone to our high school, ninety percent of all the male students would have been tripping over their own tongues. Not me, personally, of course. The girl in the photo just doesn't seem like a good fit for eighteen-year old York. There's something in those shining, youthful eyes that would have disturbed me, even at that age. You agree with me, Zach, though you could have probably dated her if you'd been so inclined.

It's all moot, though. Both adolescent me and adolescent Anna are dead, things of the past. In the photos, Anna's blonde hair falls in waves over her shoulders and breasts, and her full mouth is almost always curved in a smile or open in laughter. I can't look at her for very long, and turn my concentration back to enjoying my food.

Deputy Wyatt continues, "Sallie is unemployed, living off the insurance of her husband's accident. After all, it's a small town with a low cost of living. Financially, the Grahams seemed to get by fine. They led fairly normal lives, as far as anyone can tell."

"A normal life is exactly what a curious teenager doesn't want," I murmur, contemplating my cigarette. It's smoldering, though I don't remember having lighted it. Was that your doing? I stub it out on my empty plate, having picked up the last of the biscuits with my free hand. Deputy Wyatt is giving me a dirty look for some reason. Perhaps she thinks I'm not paying attention, although surely my last comment should have alleviated her of that particular concern? I take a bite out of the biscuit I'm holding.

"City folk, huh?" Deputy Wyatt says, apparently talking to Thomas who is standing right by her side. "No. No, I take it back. They can't all be as bad as he is."

I don't get a chance to hear her explanation for that mysterious little aside, because my mouth is once again full of the fluffiest, moistest, most flavorful baked good I have had since... Well... It's not often I get homemade treats like this. I ask Thomas where in town I can find them, and his response is astonishing: His pale face goes beet red, and he turns sharply away as if he might start crying at any moment.

"Um, ah, well, you see, Agent York, I... Um... Actually, I made them myself."

"I'm very particular about biscuits, I'll have you know," I say, still chewing. "You've achieved the perfect balance of milk and butter, as well as somehow managing to circumvent the common bane that plagues most other cheese biscuits. Namely, the grease!" I brandish my half-eaten portion. "Nowhere to be found. Amazing!"

"Oh! Oh, I... Thank you, Agent York. I d-don't know what to say," Thomas stammers, turning, if it's possible, even redder.

"Agent York, do you have any questions related to the actual case?" Deputy Wyatt asks sharply.

We don't have any questions, do we, Zach? I'm about to say that it sounds like the usual headline blurb, and that we're going to have to look elsewhere for deeper answers, when there's a knock on the door. Sheriff Woodman, who up until this time has been sitting at the far end of the table without a word or a glance towards any of us, gets up to answer it. It's another officer, with a phone message: Anna's autopsy has just been completed over at the Greenvale General Hospital, and it seems the consensus is to take advantage of the good timing and head over as soon as possible.

Sheriff Woodman nods in my direction, and I try to swallow my last mouthful quickly. It's hard, though, Zach. You know me: If it's good food, I like to linger over every crumb.

"Agent Morgan, if you have no further questions, you're welcome to accompany us to the hospital if you wish," George rumbles. "Emily, you come too. Thomas, stay here and tidy up these files."

Thomas salutes as if he's just been given an order of the highest magnitude. "Yes sir!" he says, without stuttering. It's great to see that kind of enthusiasm, in any level of any job. I know there are some junior paper-pushers in the Washington office who could a learn a thing or two from young Mr. MacLaine, not the least of which are his fantastic baking skills.

The three of us head out to the parking lot. It's a short trip, but along the way, King Woodman manages to work in more hints that he is still less than thrilled with my involvement in Anna's case.

"You might think this is just a small town police investigation," he addresses me, "but our inspections are thorough and solid. I'm hoping you won't slow us down."

"Don't worry, Sheriff," I say brightly, getting into the car. "When it comes to investigating, I'm like Muhammad Ali. Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee."

Woodman doesn't respond to this. Guess the King isn't a boxing fan. Instead, he snaps, "Agent Morgan! There's no point in getting behind the wheel if you don't know your way around yet. Let Emily drive us there. It'll take too long to explain the route to you."

Deputy Wyatt comes up behind the sheriff and crosses her arms. Neither of them look too happy.

"George is right, Agent York. We all know our way around this place, so none of us carry roadmaps of Greenvale in our cars. I can go over the directions with you later-"

"Ah, but this is the perfect learning opportunity for an outsider like me," I say, very reasonably. "I've done a bit of research into the area, and I'd like to think I'm pretty handy with spatial memorization, so if you don't mind, I think it would be a good idea if I drove everyone there instead. Best way to learn to swim is to start in the deep end, Za- I always say."

It's true, you do always say that. I don't like to cover up the truth about matters, but you're right, we don't want to make them nervous. They're on their guard with me enough as it is. And I did say we should take it slow...

In the end, they both cave, and relinquish me the wheel. Sheriff Woodman rides shotgun, though he behaves more like a backseat driver.

"All right, Morgan," he grumbles under his moustache. "Get us there quickly, but stay within the speed limit. Just because you're from the city doesn't mean you can drive like a maniac."

"George, what are you, his mother?" Wyatt says half-jokingly from the backseat. I guess she can't see the both of us bristling at the mere notion. "He's not accustomed to the town yet. Cut him a little slack."

"We just need the autopsy results, plain and simple. If I wanted to make it more complicated than getting from point A to B, I would have just gone myself!"

It's at this point that I decide to start calling everyone by their first names. Don't ask me why. Maybe it was the biscuits; my stomach being full tends to make me less formal, even when the situation calls for it. A good biscuit is a dangerous thing, Zach. Don't let me forget that.

"But George, it's important that I check out the body firsthand. That's the whole point of this excursion, isn't it? After all, there are certain clues on a murder victim that you would never know to look for without outside information. And as the only outsider, I am uniquely qualified."

George waves an impatient hand in my face. "All right, all right. Let's just get going. We can't keep Ushah waiting the way you've been making us wait."

I pull out of the station lot, making sure to abide by every rule of the road I can think of. The handling of the police car, though barely passable, only reminds me of our Mustang lying busted off the side of the highway, now probably sitting all alone in some dingy Greenvale mechanic's garage. You were even fonder of that car than I was, Zach. I had to custom order half the parts, cost me a good chunk of my agent's salary. It was totally worth it, of course, but we're just going to have to make do without it for now. Something tells me this mission won't provide a good time to ask George where he put our ride, no matter how much it would enhance our emotional well-being.

Emily? Yes, she might be able to help us out. It's kind of hard to tell at this point. She did briefly defend us from the monarchy a few moments ago, but that may have just been like a single spark from a dying lighter. Now Thomas, on the other hand. He seems to be on our side, even though his complete fealty to King Woodman is obvious... He's just got a naturally helpful streak, I guess.

You don't get men like Thomas in the big city, Zach. Well, in one sense, we do. But you know what I mean.

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Reviews would be... superb!


	7. chapter 06: Chessmaster York

In which Freckly Fiona makes an appearance, but Ushah does not.

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**CHAPTER 06: CHESSMASTER YORK**

**TIME AND LOCATION: 10:39, Greenvale General Hospital, en route  
WEATHER REPORT: Sudden light showers  
FORTUNE: "Sometimes it helps to see things in black and white."**

After insisting that he drive them to the hospital, Agent York seems more willing to open up. This becomes apparent after George remarks pointedly, "Agent Morgan, I can't help noticing you prefer to work alone," as if this is some personal defect that York will have to work on if he wants to be a full-fledged member of the team. York ignores the subtext.

"Most of the time, yes. Alone is a bit of a strong word, though."

"Don't you get lonely, flying all over the country by yourself?"

York's eyes glance at Emily in the rearview mirror, then away. "I must say, I've never felt lonely," he says thoughtfully, as if it's never crossed his mind.

"Are you married?" She regrets the question immediately, but is genuinely curious as to what sort of woman would fall in with a man such as York.

"Unfortunately, long-term relationships and I are as fleeting shadows, meeting and parting ways in the midst of a dense fog," York says. "I don't get on very well with women, you might be surprised to hear."

"Ha! Well, with lines like that, I'm not surprised."

She doesn't mean it to sound cruel, but the laughter makes it so. Fortunately, York doesn't seem to be paying attention to her. He keeps talking.

"It's because you're young, Emily. At my age, you notice certain things. Woman are... Fragile. You've got to treat them like a thin crystal wine glass, or else-

"Or else they might shatter into tiny pieces and slice up your face, right, Morgan?" George says in a nasty tone.

"Why, George, is this an interrogation?" York says pleasantly, turning a corner a tad more sharply than his previous driving has called for. "You're like a seasoned professional."

"I'm glad you're finally admitting it. Maybe now you'll let us get on with the show and stop holding us up with your lone wolf nonsense."

Emily doesn't like the surreal animosity the conversation has suddenly turned into, and can't help but feel it's somehow partially her fault. Silence reigns in the car once more, until the hospital building looms into sight through the tall pine trees. It's started to rain again, not as heavily as the morning they met Agent York on the bridge, but sporadic bursts of lightning have been following them all the way from the Sheriff's Department.

York's parking is perfect, so even George can't complain. Both sheriff and deputy bolt for the hospital doors, but York hangs back, face turned upwards like a kid trying to catch every raindrop in his mouth.

"That's a pretty big hospital!" he shouts, not moving. "Is Greenvale getting ready for a town-wide food poisoning?"

They look back at him, George furious, water bouncing off the brim of his hat. "Can we discuss this inside?" he hollers, and disappears into the building. Emily waits for York on the steps, and they go in together.

"It's a little oversized now, but it's a leftover from the town's prosperous lumber days," Emily explains as they stamp their feet on the entrance mat. "A little hard to imagine now, isn't it?"

George shakes off his hat and puts it back on his head, looking strangely wistful at Emily's words. "Yeah, my mother always talked about how energetic this place used to be. 'Almost like a gold rush,' she used to say."

"But the hotter the fever, the faster it cools. So now, there's hardly anyone left to use these facilities."

York nods seriously. George puts his hands in his pockets and glares at York from under his hat.

"You know, Morgan, it pains me to watch my home town, the town I grew up in, lose so many citizens like this. Beyond your understanding, I'm sure."

"Yes, I'm sorry to say that it is."

"That's why this case is our problem. There really isn't any need for you to get too involved, so let's just-"

Just then, a red-haired girl in a nurse's uniform sitting behind the front desk starts waving them over.

"Sheriff Woodman! Dr. Johnson's just about ready to see you in his office," she calls, then spots York. Her eyes, magnified by thick glasses, get even bigger as they walk towards her.

"Hullo, Sheriff George, Emily. I see you've brought the newcomer! Hi, I'm Fiona. Folks around here call me 'Freckles'. You're not here for a checkup, are you, Mr. FBI Agent?"

"No, nothing so delightful." York pulls something out of his breast pocket and extends it towards her. George groans.

"Special Agent Francis York Morgan. But how did you know I was FBI?"

"Easy!" Fiona smiles, flashing metal. "None of the police in this town wear cologne."

York uses cologne? Emily wonders privately. She hadn't noticed, although that strange heavy smell that had been hanging around him on the bridge yesterday is conspicuously absent.

"You wear it, so you must be from the city. And you're with the sheriff, so you must be in on the investigation together. Am I right?" Fiona giggles.

"Impressive deductive skills! If George had any sense, he'd put you on the force right away."

Fiona grins and holds up a thick, dog-eared paperback. "I just read a lot of mystery and detective novels, that's all. Like this one. It's a bestseller, set in a small, traditional, North American town close to the Canadian border. A peaceful place, until the terrible murder of a young girl exposes the heinous evil lurking just beneath the surface of the-"

"All right, Fiona, that's enough," George says firmly, but not unkindly. "Now may not be the time to be discussing such matters."

Fiona's freckles seem to redden. "Oh, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that, what with Anna gone and all…"

"That's all right. Books are written to entertain. And it's good you're enjoying yourself," York says, raising a finger. "What we're dealing with is a vile crime, committed in the real world, very different from the fiction of a novel. So there's no need to apologize."

It's clear in the way Fiona looks after York as they head down the hall that he's gained yet another fan. Pretty soon, Emily thinks, he'll have all of Greenvale wrapped around his little finger. She's determined to maintain her role as diplomat between York and George, but for everyone else, the novelty of this stranger from the city with the scarred face seems to be opening doors. Well, it could only help the investigation. And that was the most important thing.

They stop in front of a door with a brass plaque reading "Ushah Johnson, MD, PhD". George knocks, and when nobody responds, opens the unlocked door and heads inside. The other two follow, York putting two fingers to his temple as he enters. Johnson's office is just as spacious as the exterior of the building would suggest, and is tastefully furnished in dark, muted colors. The curtains are partially drawn, letting in a grayish beam of light from the window. A computer sits humming on the large mahogany desk in the middle of the room. Johnson is nowhere to be found.

"I think Fiona may need to check her information," George says, looking around. "Does he even know we're here?"

"He must have. We're right on time."

They turn to York, who is carefully studying the computer monitor. He reaches out and swivels it so that George and Emily can see: The screen depicts a virtual chessboard, the scattered arrangement of the pieces suggesting a mid-game scenario.

"The doctor is fond of games, I take it?"

"If by 'games' you mean 'wasting time', then yes, I'd say so. If he doesn't show up soon, we'll have to go find him. What a hassle."

"No need to do that, George." York whistles to himself as he turns the computer back to its original position. 'There were specific instructions left on the desktop, and the card key to the autopsy room is around here somewhere. …Aha! I think I've found it, Zach."

York crosses over to one wall of the office, on which hangs a large poster of a black chess piece. There are other such posters lining the room, each depicting a different part of the set, but York goes straight for the knight and lifts it up by the bottom corner. Hidden behind the poster is an electronic safe embedded in the wall. Both Emily and George are silent, watching.

After a few moments fiddling with the keypad, there is a click, and the safe springs open. York reaches inside and pulls out a small plastic rectangle, which he tosses towards George like a Frisbee. George catches it, saying nothing.

Emily's curiosity gets the better of her. "How-"

"Does 4B mean anything to you?" York asks. Emily shakes her head, then stops to think. Her eyes widen.

"It's a chess move! So that game on the computer was…"

"Right. All I had to do was figure out which move would put the opponent in checkmate. It was black's turn and the only possible solution was through the knight, so the safe code was BKN24B. BKN being 'black knight', so, ' black knight to 4-B'. Simple, really. "

Emily knows better than to comment, but she can't help but be impressed. Still, there's a big difference between solving Dr. Johnson's riddle and solving a murder. She will have to reserve judgment until later. George's face is blank as they follow him to the basement where the body of Anna Graham lies, a locked safe that no amount of chess playing will be able to open.

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Reviews would be... incredible!


	8. chapter 07: Autopsy

In which Animagess did the research.

NOTE: This was probably my favorite chapter to write so far. I think I'm about done warming up, so the quality of the writing should slightly improve from here on out as the characters start interacting will each other a little more. The dialogue will not stick so closely to the source material, and a lot of the technical details will be embellished (for example, whatever happened to the contents of Anna's stomach, which surely Ushah had sent to a lab for testing?). As always, the narrative core will remain the same.

Previous chapters have been altered slightly for improvement, but I'll probably upload them later.

* * *

**CHAPTER 07: AUTOPSY**

**TIME AND LOCATION: 10:43, Greenvale General Hospital, autopsy room  
WEATHER REPORT: Light showers  
FORTUNE: "A kiss shall not wake a Sleeping Beauty, but silence her."**

"So you all made it! Let's get started, then, shall we?"

Ushah Johnson is a handsome man of indeterminate age, although surprisingly young given all the framed certificates we saw in his office. He has dark skin and gold-rimmed glasses, and his teeth shine white in the gloomy lighting as he stands up to greet us. Instead of a stethoscope, he wears a number of gold chains around his neck. Strangely fashionable for a doctor practicing in a rural town. I produce my badge by way of introduction.

"FBI Special Agent Francis York Morgan. Please, call me York. Everyone calls me that."

"Agent Morgan is here to observe the autopsy," George says as Ushah and I shake hands. "He may have some additional questions for you, though I can't say exactly how relevant they'll be to the case."

"Are you a forensic practitioner?" I ask Ushah, who laughs and replies, "Well, let's just say I've dealt with corpses before. I moved here from L.A. a few years ago, and let me tell you, there was a lot more opportunity to practice there than in Greenvale. It's unfortunate that certain aspects of my career didn't stay confined to the big city."

"I know what you mean. By the way, was that little battle of wits up there your doing?"

"Mm-hm," Ushah says, unsuccessfully trying to hide a mischievous grin. "I just wanted to see if the FBI was up to the task."

"I see. Well, it was fun."

"Glad you liked it."

As Ushah and I make small talk, I am aware of the growing discomfort coming from George and Emily regarding the centerpiece of the room. Anna Graham's body lies covered by a white sheet on a metal drainage table, the sheet unable to confine the waves of hair streaming out from under it. It's almost like she's waiting for us, Zach.

"We don't have any more time for games," George says. "We need those autopsy results."

He walks over and stands beside the body, arms folded impatiently. After a moment's hesitation, Emily goes to join him.

I lean over to tap Ushah's shoulder.

"Next time, try challenging us without obstructing the investigation," I whisper. "You've angered the monarch."

Ushah moves to stand near the head of the table and carefully removes the sheet. He starts talking, but his words are merely reiterating what we can already see. Anna lies naked on her back with her palms turned upwards, eyes closed. Her hair is as brilliant as it must have been in life, though her smooth skin has become cold and grey. Those full lips are parted slightly, as if at any moment she might open her mouth to tell us whose fingers had darkened her beautiful throat with bruises, who had slit her open from top to bottom and left an awful red gash for her life to bleed out from.

They sometimes say that dead people look like they're asleep, Zach. Not the case here. Anna is definitely gone, and she will never wake up again.

Ushah continues. "From the onset of rigor mortis, the time of death is estimated to be between 20:00 and 22:00."

"That's still quite early for a crime of this nature to take place. It must have still been fairly light out… That is, unless it was raining."

"Right on the mark, Agent York, but let's not get ahead of ourselves. Note the two exterior wounds, the pressure marks on the neck. The worst of the injuries, the likeliest cause of death, is this gash here running vertically from chest to abdomen. There is trauma to the skull resulting in fracture, but it probably occurred after she was killed. Similarly, the suffocation marks on her neck were also caused during the post-mortem interval."

"So what does this mean?"

"Assuming she did in fact die from massive blood loss due to the central body wound and the subsequent rupturing of internal organs, it… Well… She must have been cut up while she was still alive."

Emily shifts her weight uneasily. George frowns. I feel you nudging me to look at Anna's right hand, lying slightly open before me, each finger still adorned with fake plastic nails. Still a young girl after all, and now she always would be, for eternity.

"What's going on with her hand, here?"

"I was just about to get to that, Agent York." Ushah hurries around to my side of the table, beckoning the others to follow. He picks up a slim metal rod from a tray and uses it to gently spread Anna's fingers open. Imprinted in the flesh of her palm is a mark, a perfect circle.

"She was gripping something in her right fist when she died," the doctor explains. "Some kind of round, flat object, by the look of it."

"George, did you encounter any such object from the crime scene?" I ask.

"No," he replies, "though all evidence found so far is available at the station. If you think it's necessary, I'll have someone go over it with you."

"It's more than necessary, it's absolutely vital. I'll also need to visit the scene of the crime later."

I turn back to Ushah, ignoring George's look of deep disapproval. "Ushah, can you tell us anything about the weapon that might have been used to commit the killing act itself?"

"A sharp knife of sorts. It was inserted here, beneath the sternum, and quickly sliced downward. As George has mentioned to me, no such weapon has been recovered from the murder site."

He goes on, walking around the table, pointing out details with his metal instrument. Emily seems to be holding up well, though she does look a little green. Could just be the lighting here, though. George is totally unreadable, staring down at Anna's body with his thumbs hooked in his pockets. You're pretty sure he's just trying to act macho, Zach, and I think you're right. I don't think the Greenvale police have ever had to deal with a murder before.

"Her nails are clean, no skin cells from the attacker. She also doesn't appear to have been bound prior to death, nor badly beaten. At the time of expiration, she was apparently killed without resistance."

This fact seems by far the most disturbing. Even George seems to be looking at the body in a new light. But Ushah isn't finished.

"The most tragic thing, though... Is that even if she had been found alive... she wouldn't have been able to tell her story to the person who found her."

"Stop dancing around the issue," George says in a slightly strangled voice. "What the hell are you talking about?"

Emily puts her hand to her mouth before I can say anything. I nod, feeling a cold twinge from you.

"The perpetrator cut out Anna's tongue."

Ushah says, "I believe she was drugged first, to subdue her. And then she was killed. Not all the results have come back from the internal examination, but why else would there be no signs of struggle on her part?"

I lean over the corpse and gently probe the neck area. Emily shakes her head.

"Who would do a thing like this?" she asks. Naively, of course, but it's the most important question of all.

"It's only my guess, but the killer most likely had a deep, traumatized past concerning women," Ushah replies. "This particular form of violence with the body suggests someone who is unable to interact with women in normal social situations, so the killer creates a scenario where he has complete control."

There is a pause, in which I can hear Emily breathing. Is Ushah trying to be dramatic? I don't think the situation is quite appropriate, Zach; there's no reason to add more tension to a murder. We believe most of what the doctor is saying makes sense, and he's obviously a professional when it comes to the mind as well as the physical. But it's the wisdom of textbooks, academia. We're going to need more than that.

"The removal of the tongue, especially, hints at extreme alienation coupled with hardcore sadistic tendencies. He must get off on his victim's suffering, especially when they cannot answer back. A case in Seattle, 1985-"

"Ushah, please," I say sharply, not looking up from my examination of Anna's throat. "Limit your report to your findings as a doctor. Criminal profiling is my job."

An awkward silence. I stand up straight, looking hard at each of the three living persons in the room. They stare back, faces pale in the dimness. Zach, we're beginning to piece it together. Time to divulge.

"Also, with all due respect, Ushah, you're wrong about a few key details. Anna died fully, deeply, painfully aware of what was happening to her. The traces of evaporated liquid around her ocular area indicate she was crying before she died. She may not have been mobile, but her conscious mind knew."

Emily interjects. "But Dr. Johnson said she wasn't tied up before she was killed. So if she wasn't drugged, why didn't she put up a fight?"

"A seeming contradiction, but the truth often lies in paradox. And there are ways to render someone immovable without leaving physical evidence." I point to Emily. "Tell me, what time did it stop raining on the night Anna was killed?"

She hardly stops to think before answering. "I remember it was just before I went to bed, right after the movie on TV ended. So, around one AM?"

You ask the question, Zach. I'll say it for the both of us.

"What movie was it?"

"An American Werewolf in London. But what-"

"Directed by John Landis in 1981." I snap my fingers, wishing I had a cigarette between them. "So the rain stopped during the ending song 'Blue Moon'. I used to think that song was annoying, but I warmed up to it eventually. George, do you mind if I conduct my own examination of Anna? It won't take long."

Ushah looks peeved that I didn't ask him, but I'm going to do it regardless. I just don't want the monarchy interfering.

George's brow lowers. "What more do you hope to find?"

"I'm sure I mentioned that I have a personal interest in cases like these..." I lean over to look into Anna's partially open mouth. Zach, can you feel it? Down there, hidden deep in the abandoned mine shaft of Anna's throat, is that thing which we hoped never to find. Well, there goes our restful vacation.

"What is it? What are you looking for?" Emily says, her voice unnaturally soft and wispy.

I don't have time to answer her directly, Zach. It's all coming together so quickly.

"From the lack of struggle, I'd say the attack happened swiftly. Her tongue was removed, so she could do nothing but silently weep as she died. The perp stayed by her side for at least two hours until it stopped raining. And it was raining at the time of the murder. Yet, you can still see tear marks on her cheeks..."

"She was killed under a roof of some sort!" Emily exclaims. She's sharp, all right. Our experience working with the Greenvale police may not be as painful as we were expecting. But I'm pretty sure King George is not going to appreciate it when I usurp his throne...

"One other thing. The removal of her tongue was not clean. In fact, the raggedness of the stump suggests the use of a blunt instrument. But why would the perp use such a crude tool, when it's obvious he was equipped with a more than capable blade?"

I turn my gaze to Ushah, who looks startled. "Ushah, are you a passionate man?"

The doctor's cool composure stutters and stops at the question, either at the question itself or its manner of delivery.

"Uh, well, not particularly... I mean, I'd like to think I'd be man enough, should the moment call for it." Then he recovers, looking annoyed. "I don't think I understood you completely, Agent York, to be honest," he says stiffly.

"How about you, Sheriff?"

George shrugs, unfazed. "Sure. I'm a red-blooded, heterosexual male. I don't know what you're trying to imply here, Agent Morgan, but this evil deed was committed outside the boundaries of normal passion. So there's about as much point in asking me or Dr. Johnson that question as there is in asking Deputy Wyatt."

Emily gives George a harsh look, obviously upset that he invoked her name in this discussion. You're right, Zach. The topic of this conversation is like a toxic swamp, and we're dragging everyone into the muck with us. But that's what law enforcement is all about sometimes.

"George, the perp is just like you. He's passionate about women, like many men here in Greenvale, and all over the world. Passionate men are often passionate kissers... This was a 'Kiss of Death'."

Ushah knows what's coming, and he clarifies my statement with rather morbid relish.

"In other words, the perp bit off Anna's tongue."

Emily and George react to this news strongly, but without words. You can see it in their eyes, Zach. But eyes are not where we need to be looking. I pull out my mini flashlight and stare down into Anna's mouth with the beam lighting the way. With my other hand, I pick up a pair of forceps from the tray and gingerly reach into her throat with them. Deep, deeper. Help me concentrate. I don't want to make any false moves. And... Slowly...

There.

At the end of the forceps, a single, bright red seed.

"Jackpot, Zach. Or should I say, checkmate?"

My audience of three stares at it uncomprehendingly. I can feel myself grinning like a shark; it's a shame, but it looks like out old-time all-American sightseeing tour has just come to an end. I toss the forceps to the table and straighten up, putting the hard edge of authority to my next words:

"This case is now under the jurisdiction of the FBI," I say loudly. "I'm assuming command. From this point on, you will all need to assist me with the investigation."

George gets up close, but to no avail. "What the hell is going on, Agent Morgan?" he snarls. "This deserves more explanation than you've given us!"

He steps back, open-mouthed, as I begin pulling plastic evidence bag after evidence bag out of my pockets, throwing them on the table next to the forceps. Within every bag lie three red seeds, identical to the one we just pulled out of Anna's throat. For every bag, a different victim, in a different state. All found dead with seeds in their mouths, their digestive tracts. And I'll bet that Ushah will confirm that these are the same objects listed as part of the contents of Anna's stomach, though the testing will reveal nothing new. I could mention what will happen when their labs try to identify them, but they ought to see it for themselves.

Emily, Ushah and George are speechless, as if they too have had their tongues removed. I spread my arms like a circus ringmaster, or a peddler displaying his wares. Zach, this is incredible! My heart is pounding. We may have lost a vacation, but we've won another chance to stop these seed-related murders once and for all. A win-win situation for us, really. And I'm getting tired of seeing the same old red color everywhere we go. Aren't you?

"And there you have it. Amazing, eh?" I grin. "I'm sure you have a lot of questions, but unfortunately most of the details are top secret."

"No questions for now," George growls, before anyone can say anything. "We need to talk about this more in-depth, later. Thank you for your time, Dr. Johnson. It was very much appreciated."

Emily looks a little dazed, but then, so does Ushah. Poor fellow. I hope all this news isn't overwhelming him. You'd think he'd be more used to this kind of thing, having come from L.A., but maybe living out here in this peaceful mountain town has an effect on cynical city minds. Let's hope it doesn't start working on us before we solve this case, Zach. We can't afford to get soft.

I start moving towards the door, itching for a cigarette, but George hangs back.

"Just give me a moment, Agent Morgan. I have to sign the release. Emily, stay here for a bit. I want a quick word..."

I'm out of here. This place is starting to drive me crazy. My adrenaline levels are up, and I need to relax. I wave my hand, already digging in my pocket for my lighter as I push open the autopsy room doors with my shoulder.

"I'll go on ahead, then. See you guys out fron-"

The doors swing shut behind me before I hear any of the others reply. Just as I'm putting the flame to the tip of my cigarette, the lights go out. Silence creeps into the hospital along with the darkness, and I see red, red all around me...

Zach. They're here.

Again, some vacation this turned out to be...

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Reviews would be... appreciated!


	9. chapter 08: Night Shift

In which Animagess tries to make the combat sections way more interesting to read about.

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** CHAPTER 08: NIGHT SHIFT  
TIME AND LOCATION: ?  
WEATHER REPORT: ?****FORTUNE: "You have a malpractice lawsuit in your immediate future."  
**

York runs down the corridor with his gun and flashlight out, trying not to trip on the red tendrils sprouting from the walls and floor. In the beam of light, the ceilings look wrong, corners skewing where they shouldn't, lattices of ivy creeping over every surface like the work of a monstrous spider intent on trapping him in its web. Scab-like pools of shadow threaten him at every turn, and everywhere he goes is the smell of purple. It's so heavy it's become a dense fog, freezing the circulation in his ankles.

Still, despite the obstacles and the fact that he has no idea where he's going, York can't stop. He's being chased by something.

He plunges blindly through a series of swinging doors and finds himself staring at an enormous bank of polished metal cabinets, each row stacked on top of the other, the air here even colder than it is out in the hallway. His heart sinks.

"Great, Zach. Of all the rooms in all the hospitals in all the world, I had to walk into the Greenvale morgue."

He turns to leave, but just as he's reaching for the door handle, plant-like vines erupt from the tiled floor and entwine themselves into a thick barrier that no amount of cursing or kicking will demolish. Even bullets are useless, and he can't afford to waste ammo. York drops back, defeated, and looks warily around for another exit.

As he ventures slowly down the middle of the darkened chamber, flashlight temporarily pocketed to conserve energy, York hears the most terrifying sound he could have possibly imagined for himself in his current situation: The sound of metal sliding open against metal.

Zach kicks him forward when he hesitates, but then he's running under his own steam, towards the second set of doors on the other side of the room. He hears another cabinet slide open, then another, and then an avalanche of sound as the shelves on either side of him start rocketing open as soon as he passes them, followed sickeningly by the dull thumps of multiple somethings hitting the ground. He can hear scuffling behind him, and one low moan, rising above the rattling cacophony like a dark carrion bird in a steel storm.

The chamber seems to elongate around him as he rushes to make it to the exit, but he does, slamming through the doors and tumbling roughly with his back against the opposite wall. He points his gun back the way he came, but he hears and sees nothing. The morgue room doors swing shut with a mocking languidness, as if he'd just fallen for a prank.

"I know it doesn't make sense, Zach," York breathes, getting up and limping in a random direction. "The current population of Greenvale isn't nearly big enough to account for the size of that room. Maybe in its heyday, there were bodies to fill all those shelves, but now… No way. Speaking of which, Zach… Do you remember that Ron Howard movie we saw, Night Shift? Came out in 1982. You know, with Michael Keaton setting up a prostitution ring in a New York City morgue. It's been a while since we saw it… Yeah, I don't know if it'll be as funny now, either."

The Shadows, as Zach has begun calling them, are all around. They walk through Greenvale General's corridors as if nothing is amiss, though black ooze drips constantly from their mutilated faces and ragged limbs. Most wear hospital gowns, but others are dressed like members of the staff, their white coats and nurse's uniforms now streaked with gore. Some almost seem to be going about their daily business, jotting down notes on clipboards or sitting patiently on waiting room benches as if they still had names to be called. But as York watches them, they are seized by some kind of feverish agony that bends them over backwards, writhing and spitting, until finally they come after him with bloody syringes or nasty-looking pieces of medical equipment. He's had to put a few down already, watching with morbid fascination as their twitching remains melt back into the fog from which they came.

And the Shadows aren't the worst of it. York and Zach are constantly on the lookout for the one who had hunted them here, the huge axe-wielding figure clad in red. York had only caught a glimpse of it as he was ascending the stairs; it had looked right at him with glowing eyes like car headlights, then came straight towards him, dragging its weapon along the ground and sending up yellow sparks. York ran for it, and it must have lost his trail, but now York was lost too. It was still out there, looking for them.

"The most dangerous game," York mutters, trying not to breathe in too much of the foul air. "Weird to think that both John Woo's 'Hard Target' and 'Slave Girls from Beyond Infinity' were inspired by the same source material. Where do you think we are, Zach? Still in the hospital, or the land of the living dead?"

Instead of an answer, he feels Zach's shock at something red flashing at the corner of York's eye. York spins to the right, gun extended. Something is moving beyond the doors at the end of the hallway; he can see a red shape swaying on the other side of the glass, as if dancing to silent music. Cautiously, he slides closer, until finally he catches a glimpse of bright gold hair-

"Stop! Anna!" York shouts, and bursts through after her. Zach's warning makes him hesitate- could she be an apparition, a trap set by the Shadows?- but Anna turns and beckons him further, and the look on her face, like that of an angel, convinces York that she means him no harm. She turns and skips gaily down the hall, York giving chase, afraid to turn the beam of his flashlight on her lest she evaporate like a specter.

"Anna, wait!"

He follows the red and gold of Anna's ghost until she ducks straight through a wall without any resistance. Her laughter lingers in the air like soap bubbles in summer, then the hospital regains its grim atmosphere. Moving slowly, York hooks open the nearest door and ducks into a room filled with wooden shelves and shattered glass.

"Zach, Anna's no longer here. I think there might be something here that she wanted us to see..."

Careful to watch his step, York moves over to a series of drawers and pulls one open. Inside are a number of glass slides and bottles, arranged alphabetically by the surname labeled on the specimens. He peruses them, but finds nothing of interest. The fact that all of them are still intact is telling.

Next he makes his way to a large white unit in the corner. It's a refrigerator of sorts, now lifeless due to the lack of power and... one other thing. York surveys the devastation; someone has taken a very large, sharp blade to the inside of the fridge, smashing through all eight shelves and the samples they once held. The remains lie at the bottom in a bleeding mess of glass and organic matter, their usefulness as forensic evidence leaking away under York's shoes.

York frowns and taps his chest thoughtfully. "Zach, I should probably move away from the puddle I'm standing in. Who knows what might be in it. Sperm, fecal matter... And, most importantly, saliva. Specifically, the saliva of a certain kiss-crazy murderer..."

With Zach's help, York kneels down and begins probing gingerly through the shards of broken glass at his feet. He's found a pair of rubber gloves- it IS still a hospital, after all- so there's no risk of contaminating himself.

After a few minutes of searching under his precious flashlight power, York finds what he and Zach are looking for. He holds up a soggy paper label, all that remains of Anna's killer, the rest now hopelessly mingled with the DNA of a dozen other samples.

"Graham, Anna. Enzyme profile, saliva," York reads, then throws it down in disgust. "Dead end. Not that it would have helped if they had gotten it to a lab. Remember, Zach, what happened to the DNA samples in the eight other seed-related cases we reviewed? All evidence destroyed, or misplaced, or tampered with. Sometimes they just went missing. Even when our scientists did get results, it never made any sense. Once, I think it was the third case we were profiling, the sample matched up to that of a dog, even though it was obvious the victim had been killed by a human. The body was just like Anna's... Fingerprints on her neck, gutted by a sharp blade. And the same fate falls upon any attempts to analyze the red seeds themselves, too. Strange..."

Zach shares York's frustration. It's as if the red seeds defy not only the laws of nature, but fate itself. As a federal agent, York cannot endorse this line of thinking. It's unscientific, irrational, in an unhelpful sort of way. He and Zach have to believe that there is an answer to all of this, a pattern that will lead to a solution, because the alternative would be to give up. And that is out of the question.

But for now, the most immediate goal is to get out of this nightmare... York stumbles out of the specimens lab and keeps heading in a direction he has arbitrarily decided to call North. If he can just keep going, eventually he'll have to reach an exit. Right?

Three cigarettes and five gunshots later, York is reconsidering this strategy. The building never ends; it just keeps going, room after room, the Shadows becoming more frenzied, the red ivy climbing ever higher up the stained and rotting walls, darkness closing in. Zach managed to get him to a room full of gurneys and prescription stabilizers, where they are currently holed up, and York is wondering for the first time if they are going to make it.

"I know, Zach... It does seem a little early to lose hope. I mean, it's barely our first day on the job. If we die now, that'll be our worst record yet." York smiles and resists the urge to turn on the flashlight, which has been flickering ominously for the past... oh, say, between five minutes and an hour? York wishes he had a wristwatch, even though he knows it wouldn't be any good.

After a few more moments rest, York pops another stabilizer and gets ready to leave. He's resolving to break his habit of always turning down left-hand corridors this time, when his senses are rocked by a mighty blow to the door, which he and Zach had barricaded with various pieces of furniture. It's scant protection against whatever force is trying to get at them, though, and cabinets and gurneys start tumbling down, adding to the repetitive thud of the axe striking the doors from the other side.

York stops in his tracks, open-mouthed. There's literally no other way out of the room. His mouth is dry, and he realizes he hasn't had a drink of water since lunch at the sheriff's office. Unfortunately, he can't help thinking of Thomas's cheese biscuits as well, and an overwhelming dizziness comes over him. Red ivy crackles under his feet, rooting him to the ground.

"Zach," he mutters, closing his eyes. The sound of the axe seems to bury itself in his brain. "Zach, _I can't move._ Help me, help, Zach, come on, Zach, let's go, let's get out of here, let's GO."

And before he knows it, he's halfway across the room, headed for a large open wardrobe that had been too bulky to move. Under Zach's guidance, York shuts himself in and tries to become as small as possible, arms wrapped around his knees, head down, eyes shut and ears open. He feels like a child again, playing hide and seek, only this time if he's caught, he'll be dead. So much for being a super-agent, York has time to think ruefully, when the door explodes inwards and his pursuer steps into the room, the light from its eyes passing through the crack in the wardrobe doors as it swivels its head back and forth. Searching.

A tiny voice echoes in York's head:

_York! Hold your breath!_

_ They can't see you if you hold your..._

York, eyes watering, puts his hand over his mouth and nose and tries not to inhale. Outside, he can hear the heavy tread of the killer's boots headed towards his hiding spot. One, two three... His mouth twitches against the moist flesh of his palm, and he can feel his pulse racing despite the medicine... Four, five... Zach is all around him, filling his head with air like a balloon... A balloon the color of sky, blue sky, stretching into infinity. It will never pop, because it's full of all the air in the world, Zach tells him... All the oxygen in the universe is collected here. We can stay here for as long as you need to, York. Just lie back and watch the clouds go by. That one looks like a rabbit... That one looks like the squirrel on Thomas's keychain. Hey, that one looks like that nurse we met at the front desk...

A rush of light, and the last thing York hears before it hits him is a long, drawn-out wail of pure rage that seems neither human nor animal. It can't penetrate the whiteness surrounding him, though, and then the balloon finally bursts open like a supernova in York's mind...

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Reviews would be... wonderful!


	10. chapter 09: The Man in the Chair

In which Harry Stewart lays down some vastly improved rhymage.

NOTE: Chapter 08 updated to include Anna's ghost, a very important detail that I meant to include but forgot.

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**CHAPTER 09: THE MAN IN THE CHAIR  
**

**TIME AND LOCATION: 11:21, Greenvale General Hospital, convalescent ward****  
WEATHER REPORT: Slightly cloudy  
FORTUNE: "A mysterious capitalist shall bestow perplexing wisdom."**

"Why, Mr. FBI Agent! What in the world are you doing in Mr. Fisher's closet?"

I blink up at Fiona's astonished face, her red hair frizzier than ever. Slowly, I uncurl myself from where I've been lying cramped on my side, for what seems like hours. Something cracks and I wince, dropping my gun at Fiona's feet. Another federal agent no-no, but it can hardly be helped. She utters a little shriek.

"Sorry, Nurse Freckles," I say, holstering my piece and standing up without too much swaying on my feet. "I came in here to take a little nap, and I guess I must have sleepwalked in here. It's a bit of a problem, but at least I didn't break anything falling down the stairs this time. Although, if I had, this would have been the right place to do it."

"Agent York!" It's Emily and the rest of the cavalry, George and Ushah behind her. She runs up to Fiona and touches her on the arm. I light a cigarette and wait for the fireworks to start.

"Thank goodness you found him. What was he doing?"

"Well, he, um, I came in here to get Mr. Fisher's jacket, and there was Agent York, all curled up under the hangers. It looked like he was having a bad dream or something."

She'll never know how right she is, Zach. "Like I mentioned," I say, after taking a good, long drag to clear my thoughts, "Sometimes my body gets restless, even when I'm not aware of it. It could happen to anyone, really."

"In my professional opinion, you should probably get that looked at," Ushah begins, but I think we're done here. There's plenty of other things these people have to be worried about, aside from finding FBI agents sleeping in unexpected places around town. Knowing this case, it's going to happen more often than not, so they'd better get used to it.

Emily wrinkles her nose. "What's that smell? Did you spill something on yourself while you were wandering around?"

I ignore the question. "Isn't there something urgent one of you should be telling me? Something about the DNA samples taken from Anna's body, perhaps?"

George pushes his way past Ushah, glaring at me. "How do you know about that? You've been in a damn closet for the past fifteen minutes, or so you say!"

Zach, did you hear that? We were only gone for a quarter of an hour...

"It just fits the pattern, that's all," I tell George, trying to placate him. "The pattern of the murders, the inevitable destruction of evidence. It happens every single time."

"But someone broke into the storage room and smashed everything up. The saliva sample from Anna's killer is gone. You're telling me this has happened before?"

"Yes, and that's all the details you guys are going to get from me," I say, putting out my cigarette and lighting another. "We need to put this behind us and continue with the investigation. Ushah, the FBI will cover the damage done to your facility. Emily and George, let's go."

We head out into the lobby, Fiona and Ushah hanging back with worried expressions on their faces. Perhaps they are concerned about their own safety, knowing that someone involved with Anna's killing was in this very building with us not moments ago. But they have nothing to worry about. That evidence was the only thing that was destroyed, the only thing that mattered... And now that it's gone, the hospital is safe once again. Not to mention the fact that the vandalism took place on what you might refer to as another plane of reality; not to get too science-fiction about it, Zach, but I think we both know that the culprit had a lot longer than fifteen minutes to get the job done.

As we make our way towards the main entrance, I hear the faint creak of wheels turning behind us. We all turn, and coming towards us is one of the strangest characters I've met since coming here. A man, wheelchair-bound, not in itself a big deal... Especially in a hospital. But this wheelchair is big and wooden and custom-built, and the man sitting in it wears a charcoal suit to match, snappy as all hell. He's probably in his sixties or seventies, given the color of his hair, but that's about all I can tell about him. Oh, he's also wearing a gas mask over his face that reminds me of a skull, and these round, brass-colored diodes standing out on his neck like Frankenstein's monster.

He's like an inmate from Escape from New York or something along those lines. At least, he would be if not for the expensive clothing. Everyone makes a big point of staring, and it's not hard to see why: The newcomer has a most unsettling disposition. I lean over to George, whispering, "Who's the old guy?"

"That's Harry. Harry Stewart," George says, doing nothing to hide the mistrust in his voice. "One of the more... problematic elements here in town. His father started up the lumber trade in this area and founded this community, but Harry himself is a bit of a weirdo, as I'm sure you can see. Always wearing that mask, never talking to the other townsfolk... And, FYI, he owns almost all of Greenvale."

I nod, watching the wheelchair approach.

"And the one behind him?"

"Michael Tillotson, Harry's aide. You'll never see one without the other. Tillotson hasn't always lived here, but damned if I can remember when he first showed up in town."

The man pushing Harry Stewart's wheelchair wears a cream-colored suit, exquisitely tailored to his slim frame, and has distinctly Asiatic features. He looks young, but appearances can be deceiving. He and Stewart come abreast of us and Tillotson stops the chair, both of them staring directly at me, though it's hard to tell through that gas mask. Stewart beckons Tillotson closer and the two seem to be conversing, though I can hear nothing.

"Mr. Francis York Morgan," Tillotson says, straightening up. His voice is soft and lilting, almost sing-song. "_The seeker does well not to proceed with haste. Last is the rat who thinks he's won the race. _So says Mr. Stewart._"_

"Nice to meet you too, " I say. "How did you know my name?"

Another whispered missive. Tillotson turns to address me again.

"Mr. Francis York Morgan. _The hunter is hunted, the deer takes the lead. Information will find you, for it wants to be free. _So says Mr. Stewart._"_

Now where have we heard that last line before, Zach? As I rack my brain, George steps up beside me and confronts Stewart directly.

"Harry, stop trying to get in our way. Keep this up and we'll start to think you're involved somehow. And then even you'll have to answer to me."

The diodes on Mr. Stewart's throat bob rhythmically as Tillotson bends over him, listening patiently. Here it comes again, Zach. Tillotson's eyes are cold and dark as he recites his cryptic riddle, almost unfocused, as if he's talking to nobody.

"Mr. Francis York Morgan. _With rainfall comes madness, the forest is weeping. We cannot stop it while the goddess lies sleeping. _So says Mr. Stewart._"_

George throws up his hands in disgust and turns away. "Thanks for the warning," I say politely. Michael gives a slight bow and takes up the handles of Mr. Stewart's wheelchair once more. They move past us and out the front doors, wheels trundling across the threshold. It's stopped raining outside.

"Has he always been a poet?" I ask George. He is not amused.

"He's always spouting that nonsense. Don't give it any thought. It's a bunch of gibberish."

Maybe, maybe not. You think Harry Stewart knows more than he's letting on, Zach? Or is he just senile? Questions for another time, perhaps.

The police radio on Emily's shoulder crackles. She turns her head, presses a button on its side. "Emily here. …Okay, Thomas, thanks." She lets her hand drop. "Agent York, we've contacted the first witnesses to the crime scene, " she says. "You can interview them where they found the body."

"Excellent! I was just about to ask you to take me there."

Emily laughs as the three of us walk down the steps into the parking lot. "Had enough independence, Agent York? You were so keen on driving yourself around town before."

I rip open a bag of potato chips I'd picked up from the vending machine in the hospital lobby. "I'm too hungry to drive. Besides, from what I remember of the files, Anna was found way out in the forest somewhere. I'd never make it there on an empty stomach."

"Right, the Greenvale Forest Park," Emily says, getting behind the wheel. "It's the town's pride and joy. There's a beautiful hiking trail leading to a viewing platform over Velvet Falls, and the place becomes a national tourist attraction during the hunting season."

"Mmm! Sounds fantastic," I say through a mouthful of chips. "Remind me to get you to show me the sights sometime, Emily."

No kidding, Zach. She'd make quite the attractive tour guide. Though, I don't think that type of job would suit her any better than this drab police uniform she always has to wear...

"No time for that now. Let's get to the park," George says, climbing in the front passenger seat and forcing me to sit where all I can see are the backs of their heads. As Emily pulls out, George turns around and says, "Agent Morgan. If I could just give you a friendly warning..."

"Are you really that upset about me taking over?"

George scratches his chin and grumbles something inaudible.

"My involvement with Anna's case is completely authorized by the Bureau," I tell him. "I understand if you don't like it, but you will follow my orders."

"I'm not disputing FBI authority," George says after a long pause. "But this is our town. You won't get far alone. And so far, with all the stunts you've been pulling ever since you got here, it doesn't make me confident that you are ever going to cooperate. You will gain nothing by antagonizing me."

I shrug. I can't help the way I am, and I tell him so. It doesn't seem to satisfy him, especially when I suggest that taking him off the case might be the most appropriate method. We're going to do things our way, Zach, and unnecessary conflict is only going to hurt matters. Best to avoid it altogether.

Emily doesn't seem to understand either. "Stop it, you two. We need to solve this case, not bicker among ourselves."

"But-"

"Don't make me turn this car around!"

I turn my face away so they can't see me grinning. Outside, the civilized world, the man-made homes and businesses of Greenvale, begin to give way to the untamed majesty of the forest. Tall pine trees stab upwards into the sky, managing to evoke a bleak sense of loneliness despite their numbers. Beyond the forest, far into the distance, are the blue humps of mountain ranges, covered in perpetual fog. One of them must be the place where we crashed our car...

"So, I take it you've already interviewed the witnesses," I say, gazing out the window in hopes of catching sight of a deer. Zach, yell if you see one.

"Well, not yet, exactly."

"What, are you out of your mind? Isn't that one of the first steps in police procedure, after taking care of the body?"

"Agent York, I don't appreciate your tone," Emily says icily. Funny, I expected to hear some talkback from George. "We were given orders to wait for your arrival."

"Oh, really? Who gave the orders?"

"An FBI man, name of Abrahams."

Robert, is it? Good old Bob Abrahams... We did tell him to stay out of it, didn't we, Zach? It's always tough to have a meddling boss. George in particular seems happy to hear that politics and miscommunication exist even in our perfect little organization.

"Why, Agent Morgan, I thought you knew! Don't worry about it. We may not have the official statements, but we got all the information we need. I can fill you in, if you want."

"Thanks, George, but I still need to visit the crime scene. And it's always more informative to talk to witnesses face to face."

Emily shakes her head. "I just can't believe that the children were exposed to such a graphic crime this way," she sighs. "You'd better be careful with them, Agent York."

That's right, I'd almost forgotten. The first witnesses had been two young boys... Come to think of it, hadn't I seen a couple of- What's that, Zach? What? Where?

"Oh my god! Look at that!"

The seatbelt across my chest tightens as Emily slams on the brakes. George, who has decided to forgo his belt for some reason, puts his hands on the dashboard to stop his nose from breaking against it. Emily looks wildly around, jagged blonde locks flailing.

"What? What is it, York?"

"I think I saw one!"

"Saw what? What are you talking about?"

"I think Zach spotted a deer."

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Reviews would be... splendid!


	11. chapter 10: Eyewitness Accounts

In which York doesn't believe in childhood trauma.

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**CHAPTER 10: EYEWITNESS ACCOUNTS  
**

**TIME AND LOCATION: 12:02, Greenvale Forest Park  
****WEATHER REPORT: Slightly cloudy  
FORTUNE: "The nature of a goddess lies in her duality."**

"Now boys, don't play too hard. You need to conserve your energy for... Some people are going to stop by and ask you some questions. Okay?"

"What does conserve mean, grandpa?"

Jim Green wipes his face with a handkerchief and tries to think of a good answer. Two pairs of wide hazel eyes look up at him, seeming to change color in the shifting sunlight coming through the trees.

"It means... Well, it means to protect."

"Oh. Kind of like how you protect the forest?"

Jim smiles and ruffles Isaach's moppish light brown hair. "Yes, exactly."

Isaiah, not wanting to be left out, speaks up. "Are we gonna get to con... conserve stuff when we grow up?"

"That's right."

"Oh. Cool!"

The twins run off a short distance, laughing at some private joke. Jim watches them, trying not to think about what lies just on the other end of the wooded path to his right. They're in a clearing of sorts, and it would be the ideal place to hike with one's grandsons if it wasn't for the bright yellow police tape strewn everywhere like the toilet paper remains of some teenage prank. The boys are ignoring all of it, however, content to explore the insect-riddled contents of an old log that used to be an enormous pine tree last summer before a big thunderstorm brought it crashing down here. He listens to their voices, bubbling over with curiosity and wonder, and curses the man he is scheduled to meet.

Five minutes later, he hears the sounds of an approaching vehicle trundling down the road. It's a sound he isn't very accustomed to; usually he's deep enough in the forest that all he can hear is the rustle of wind through the leaves, and the chirrup of birdsong overhead as he makes his rounds. Car doors open and shut, and then three figures are walking towards him, twigs crackling under their feet.

Jim raises his hand, feeling tense. "Emily, George. And you must be..."

"FBI Special Agent Francis York Morgan," the newcomer says, flashing something and putting it back in his suit pocket before Jim can make out what it is. "Call me York. Everyone calls me that. And you must be Jim Green?"

"That I am, son. I'm the park warden, I keep these woods."

"You're doing a fine job of it, too. How long have you been working here?"

"Well, I used to be a tree surgeon," Jim replies, scratching his head. "I've been here ever since the park was established in 1968 by Mr. Stewart. Little history lesson there, for you."

The man raises an eyebrow. "Harry Stewart owns this land?"

"I did tell you he bought out pretty much everything," George mutters. "Most of Greenvale is built on his property."

FBI Special Agent York puts two fingers to his head and stalks a short distance away. Jim can hear him mumbling to someone not in the immediate vicinity. "Did you hear that, Zach? This whole forest, a rich man's personal playground. These country millionaires are something else!"

Jim looks at Emily and George for guidance, but they just look blank. He feels strangely resentful towards this stranger with the scarred face and the odd colored eyes, but there's nothing to be done. Hopefully he'll get what he wants soon, and leave Jim and the boys alone.

Eventually, Agent York spots the twins sitting on the fallen log, examining a ladybug with impenetrable fascination. He heads over to them, Jim jogging to catch up, not wanting York to be alone with the boys for a second.

"And these two first discovered the body," York says, pointing at the kids as if they're zoo animals.

"Yes, my grandchildren. Isaach and Isaiah. You may have met their parents, Keith and Lilly Ingram? They run the Milk Barn over on the west side of town."

"Can't say I have," York says absently, still staring at the twins. "Which one is which?"

"I don't think that's relevant," Jim says stiffly. He doesn't tell York that Isaach is the one in the green shirt and Isaiah is wearing blue, though it would be easy enough to do so. He doesn't know why he's withholding this information, but he can't see how it would help solve the case, so why tell a stranger?

Unwittingly, Jim thinks back to the morning it all started. He and the twins had been taking their daily walk through the wood path on the west side of the park. The weather was crystal clear, the air cool and crisp enough to be refreshing, but not so cold that jackets were necessary. Isaach and Isaiah had run on ahead, Jim stopping to trim a few weeds growing under a signpost with a pair of clippers he always carried on these outings. He'd heard the boys fall silent, conspicuous given their chattering just a moment before, so he'd gone to investigate. He took a right into a clearing, saw the boys standing together at the foot of a thick, gnarled tree, staring up at something. Jim followed their gaze, not knowing what was holding their attention so raptly, and for a second he still wasn't sure what he was looking at...

The tree was old, perhaps even ancient. Its leaves had been stripped away over time until all that remained was its twisted trunk, stark branches raised to the heavens as if in supplication. And just above their heads, pale arms bound by wire to some of the sturdier boughs, hung the body of Anna Graham.

She was naked from the waist up, though her long hair fell in waves across her unmoving chest. Red velvet fluttered in Jim's vision as he darted forward, sweeping the kids under his arms and shielding them from the sight. His breath came in sobs, and he didn't know how long it was before the police arrived. He must have called them from a pay phone, though he didn't know how coherent he'd been. Later, he was told that his voice was perfectly steady, so at first Deputy MacLaine hadn't known anything was wrong. Jim doesn't remember any of it, though. The last thing he does remember are the faces of Isaach and Isaiah, looking over his shoulder at the pale figure crucified above them, the lower half of the body wrapped in fabric stained a deep, dark red. The twin's eyes were shining, huge, almost rapturous , and then the sirens came.

"I'm sorry, but could we talk away from the boys?" Jim says. "I'd like to help, but I don't want them hearing this."

George nods at Emily, who starts to lead the twins from off the log. Agent York's voice cracks like a whip in the slightly humid air.

"Hold on! Don't do anything without consulting me first."

Emily looks up, the two boys gripping her hands. "Agent York?"

"These kids are our first witnesses. I want to talk to them."

Jim is shocked. "Come on, they're just children! They have no idea what really happened!"

"That doesn't matter. Their input is still valuable."

"How heartless!" Emily cries. "Do you ever think of other people's feelings? Ever?"

"Emily's right, Morgan. That's stone cold, even for the sake of the investigation. What could they tell us, anyway? Children at this age aren't known for providing reliable witness accounts."

York begins to pace, waving a finger in the air like a mad orchestra conductor. "Children see things in pure, simple terms, George. They may have caught something we adults, with our filters and blinders on perception, would never notice. Besides, they're here at the request of an agent from the Federal Bureau. Consider this a direct order. All of you."

"Are you serious?"

"I never joke about matters like this," York says, smirking. Even peaceful, nature-loving Jim wants to rip off his tie and strangle him with it, but that would be just one more concession to the scum of the outside world that the twins would be exposed to. He backs down, wiping his hands on his handkerchief as if trying to rid them of something foul.

"Fine. Just make it quick, and watch what you say. I'll be listening."

"Don't worry. They aren't as fragile as you think. Right, Zach?"

York comes around to Emily's side of the log and bends down to look the twins in the eye. They cock their heads quizzically, like attentive sparrows. "Hello, boys. My name is York," he says cheerfully, badge tucked out of sight. "Can I ask you a couple of questions about what you saw in that clearing over there?"

Isaach and Isaiah are intrigued by this new introduction to the familiar woods in which they've grown up. To them, adults are like trees: Tall and strong, always watching over them, but forever keeping secrets. Emily, Sheriff George, and even Grandpa Jim, none of them like to talk about what they see. This one seems different from the others, though; he's not really like a tree, more like a forest pool, the kind that looks only a couple of feet deep until you dip in a long stick and find that it never reaches bottom. That's what York is like, they both agree. A deep, still pool, its waters shimmering green, the color of his eyes.

"Sure, mister, we'll answer any questions you have. Fire away!"

"Yeah, fire away!"

"Thank you. Now then, tell me what you found at that tree."

"The big red one?" Isaach says.

"The one without any leaves?" Isaiah says.

"That's the one."

They ponder. Then-

"Anna!" they say in unison, their eyes lighting up. Emily feels Jim flinch next to her, and resolve to give York a stern lecture on tact the next time they go out.

"Anna was so pretty," Isaiah sighs. "She had on a red dress."

"The sun was shining through her hair."

"Bright gold hair!"

"There were lots of animals around her, like, um, squirrels, weasels... And..."

Isaiah interrupts his brother in his excitement. "A snake! A real, live snake!"

"It went all over Anna, but she didn't wake up. I don't think girls like snakes, anyway."

Jim puts his face in his hands. Emily moves to comfort him. York and the twins don't look up, lost in their own private universe.

"We didn't know it then," Isaach says with the staunch conviction of a six-year old.

"But we know it now!" Isaiah finishes. York waits for elaboration, gets none, and prompts them gently.

"What is it you know, Isaach? Isaiah?"

The twins reply at the same time, round faces alight with joy.

"Anna was the fairy of the forest. She was a goddess!" Their laughter pours into the clearing like a flutter of silver butterflies.

"She smiled when she saw us," Isaiah nods.

"She looked so happy..."

York stands up, one finger tapping at his collar. He looks towards the mass of police tape blocking off the path to the tree where Anna was found, a faraway expression in his eyes.

"That's right, boys. She was a fairy, a goddess..." he murmurs. "I'm sure she's playing with her animal friends, even now."

"Course she is!"

"Yeah, of course she is!"

Jim and Emily take this opportunity to swoop in and rescue the twins from any further interrogation, but York is already finished. He smiles at Isaach and Isaiah as they wave at him from behind Jim's legs.

"Thank you, boys, for the most helpful information. Well, as for the rest of this little outing... It's time to take a look at that tree. Emily, George, you can accompany me if you want. But it really doesn't matter."

"You won't get rid of us that easily," George growls. "We need to stick around to make sure you don't screw anything else up."

Emily thanks Jim for his time, an apology lurking somewhere behind her blue eyes, then she trots off to follow George and Agent Whatsisface under the police tape and disappears from view. Jim lets out a long, slow breath he hadn't noticed he was holding. His entire body feels drained and weak; he sits on the log and stares at the ground, wondering what will become of their small town now that death has entered Greenvale. Isaach and Isaiah run off to investigate something or another, and it's only until their cries are at a distance does he realize that Agent York never interviewed him, the only adult witness. Only the twins had been questioned...

Above his head, the clouds gather, and rain begins to fall from the sky.

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Reviews would be... stupendous!


	12. chapter 11: The Tree of Anna

In which Animagess tries to make some of York's crazier theories make sense from a forensic perspective. Also, we introduce a hippie neighbor from York's childhood.  
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CHAPTER 11: THE TREE OF ANNA**

**TIME AND LOCATION: 12:17, Greenvale Forest Park  
WEATHER REPORT: Sudden sporadic light showers  
FORTUNE: "Some women want men to worship the ground they walk on."**

Isaach and Isaiah Ingram. Twins, sans haloes and wings, currently under the custody of the groundskeeper here. Wonder what the parents are up to. What the hell were they doing in my dreams, Zach? The angels have landed, and they're here in Greenvale. As befitting messengers of the Lord, they're the first truly cooperative people we've met since coming here. Their grandfather seems like he could be a nice guy, but he doesn't seem to trust us very much. He must have been a fantastic tree surgeon in his day.

All right, we'll finish this conversation later. Time to set up a profile before this damned rain washes everything away. You know, it's amazing that scientists, with all their cutting edge technology, still haven't figure out how to control the weather. Even in the movies, it's always portrayed as a bad thing that only a crazy person would do. Like Superman III, or Back to the Future II... Hmm, let's try to think of one that isn't a sequel. What about Our Man Flint, 1966, starring James Coburn? A bit before our time, sure, but I used to be obsessed with spy movies as a kid. I guess becoming a federal agent was the next best thing.

The tree Anna was found hanging from is different from the pines and oaks surrounding us. I can tell that much, even with my limited knowledge of plants. It's strangely thick in the truck, and its branches look like claws grasping at the sky. I can see marks on the branches where the wires binding Anna's arms were tied, but the area seems to have been picked clean.

At the base of the tree, an unusually lush carpet of red flowers the color of blood spill across the grass. Their petals give off a strong smell as they soak up the rainwater, and they don't appear to be growing anywhere else. I pick one by the stem and a thick, dark juice oozes out onto my fingers.

"Are you going to get this show started or what?" George walks up behind me as I put the flower in an evidence bag and seal it shut. "Or are you planning to make us wait in the rain all day again?"

"You're the one who followed me here," I say, scanning the ground for more clues. "I didn't say you couldn't wait in the car."

"Emily and I should just drive back to the station without you. Then maybe you'll start taking help when it's offered," George says, stalking off again. Then I hear him call at a distance: "It's a long walk back to Greenvale, Morgan!"

We don't need his help, Zach. Getting the monarchy involved would only hinder our progress. Even Emily, though I'm sorry to say it, probably wouldn't be of much help either. Profiling is a delicate art and a rigorous science, and it's important to keep the scales in balance.

Walking around the tree, the smell of the flowers grows overwhelming. Look, there are two round patches here where the flowers lie broken and crushed. Their juices have not yet dried, or the smell has been reactivated by the rain. Given that we know nothing of the flower's biology, this adds nothing new to our timeframe. But I think it's safe to say that this much damage could have only been caused by the murderer, during or after the act of tying Anna to the tree.

I wave Emily and George over and point out the indentations. "Take a look at this. Those aren't footprints."

"No, they aren't. Although we have reason to believe there were footprints around the area, the rain made it impossible to take accurate samples."

...Brilliant, Zach! "They must be knee prints!" I exclaim. "The killer tied Anna to the tree, then fell to his knees, right where those dents are. And look-"

I bend down, picking something out of the flowers near the left impression. It's sticky with black syrup, about the size of a fingernail. I almost wouldn't have noticed it, but you always spot the things I miss. George and Emily look at the object in my palm, obviously clueless about its importance.

"It's a rusted metal chip," Emily says finally. "So what?"

"Ten points for observation, zero for interpretation," I say, bagging the chip as well. "We'll get back to that later. What other evidence did you find here in my absence?"

"The evidence is at the station, but I brought a photo album if you want to look."

"Please do, Emily. George, Zach and I will continue surveying the area."

"Okay, but I have to warn you, it isn't much..." Emily runs towards the car, slim arms pumping as if she's running track and field. A strangely girlish run for someone so practical. George points out some other spots of interest, none of them turning up anything meaningful, until she comes back with the photos.

The binder is laminated, but I still have to shield it from the rain with my arm to prevent water from pooling over the images.

"Hmm... A broken heel from a red high stiletto shoe, and... What's this?"

I point to what looks like a torn piece of a photograph. The quality isn't great, being a copy of a copy, but I can just about make out the blurry image of a broad-shouldered man with his face turned away from the camera. A strange circular symbol is inscribed on his back, the same symbol we saw imprinted in Anna's hand at the autopsy.

"We don't know either. Appears to be a man with some kind of tattoo. No telling who it could be, or if he's even from Greenvale. That fragment was found in a bird's nest, believe it or not, so who knows where it came from originally."

I turn the binder upside-down. Haven't seen one of these in a while, Zach. See? The tattoo looks like a peace symbol, an inverted version of the kind our hippie neighbor wore on his t-shirts when we were kids. "Fight the power, little guy!" he'd always yell at us from his porch, and "Stick it to the man!" You thought he was funny, Zach, but he kind of scared me, to tell you the truth. Dad chased him down the street once after he tried to offer us a joint. Ironic, that we'd end becoming the very embodiment of "the man" he was telling us to overthrow, but hey, we never lived through the sixties.

George finally comes up with a useful piece of information regarding the stilettos. He leads me around the clearing, pointing at certain areas. "Here, here and here. Before the rainstorm, the ground was pockmarked with tiny pinholes, about half an inch deep. We're pretty certain that this is where the shoe that heel belonged to came into play." We end up back at the tree, next to the indentations. "From what I gather, he hung her from the tree, then put on Anna's shoes. He was really enjoying himself, the sicko. Then he knelt down in front of her, and..."

"Oh stop," Emily says, wincing. "I don't even want to hear what you think he did to her."

"You certainly have a vivid imagination, George," I say. Though it's an interesting theory, don't you agree, Zach? We should introduce him to that Hollywood producer, Joel whatshisname. He'd have to cut us in on the movie profits if it ever got made, of course. "Profiling is a little different than writing a screenplay, though. An interesting idea doesn't make it a factual one."

Zach, it's time to clarify things for our bemused audience. I hand the binder back to Emily and light a cigarette, the rain finally having eased up at some point during our search. "The perp knelt for a reason other than simple perversion. And those weren't Anna's shoes, or at any rate, the killer wasn't wearing them when he dragged Anna here. You said the heels had left holes in the ground about half an inch deep before the rain washed them away. If the killer had been male, a heavyset man like we saw in the photo, the indents would have been much deeper, especially in the soft, wet soil."

"But you're assuming the perp is male," Emily objects. "Not to mention, it's a pretty big leap to say that the man in the photo had anything to do with this. We don't even know if that photo was Anna's."

"Ah, but the symbol on the man's back matches whatever it was Anna was clutching in her right hand at the time of the killing. As for the murderer's gender, pardon me if I reiterate what I said earlier about fragility, but how many women in this town would be strong enough to tear open someone's stomach with a knife, then haul the body up into that tree while wearing stiletto heels the whole time?"

"So who was wearing the heels, then?"

"We have a third party on our hands, Emily. A mystery woman, possibly related to the murder, but not directly so. George, would I be right in guessing that the pinholes got more spread apart as they went further away from the tree?"

"Yeah, they did," George says, surprised. "How did you know?"

"Our Miss Stiletto Heels saw Anna's body and broke her heel getting out of this place. But nobody runs from an object of worship. She's not the murderer... Perhaps another potential victim who was with Anna at the time of her death, or an accomplice who fled the scene for some reason. But whoever she is, she is also the one who took that item Anna was holding so tightly in her hand."

"But why?" George asks, trying his best to make sense of it all. "Why did she leave her here?"

"Only Miss Stiletto Heels herself knows that," I say, blowing smoke. "My guess is that she also knows the identity of the man with the tattoo on his back. How many women in this town wear shoes like that, do you think?"

"Oh, I should think most have at least one pair. I do too, before you ask," Emily says wryly. "But nobody would come all the way out here wearing them, except..."

"Diane Ames," George and Emily say at the same time. Just like the Ingram twins.

"Well, don't keep me in the dark. Who is this elegant lady?"

"She's the owner of the local art gallery. Right now, she's out of town for a big art auction. She'll be back in a couple of days."

"So she has an alibi, at least."

"Not exactly," Emily says in a slightly disapproving tone. "She was definitely in town the night Anna was killed. She took off not soon after, didn't tell anybody."

"Well, we'll have to give her a warm welcome home. There's no reason to suspect she might not return, is there?" I smile, wondering in the back of my mind where to put my cigarette out.

Emily seems deep in thought. "Agent York. You mentioned something about worship. Are you meaning to tell us that the killer knelt in front of Anna... to pray?"

"You're quick, Deputy Emily. I'm glad you figured it out, because I completely forgot to mention it."

"Maybe he was asking God to forgive his sins," George suggests, but we don't think that's quite right. It's like the twins said: Anna was a goddess. The unknown subject, or "unsub", knelt down and offered up prayers to the tongueless, carved-open body from whom he'd wrested all spirit... He subconsciously transferred his own fanaticism into the empty vessel, transforming poor dead Anna from a corpse into an object worthy of worship.

"But for every place of religious ritual, for every sacrifice, there must be an altar..." I take out the bag with the rusted chip in it and dangle it so they can both see the contents. "Where in town can you find something like this? Perhaps an old, abandoned building... Lots of metal, or metal machinery. Something like that?"

Just like with Diane, there's no hesitation or variation to either George or Emily's response.

"The old lumber mill!"

Emily's eyes widen. "So we're talking about the site of the murder itself," she says, awed by the idea.

"Makes sense," George nods slowly. "That place was shut down years ago, shortly after Deputy Wyatt joined the force, in fact. Plenty of metal left to rust there."

"That settles it then. Emily, George..." I spread my arms and look up into the belly of the sky, where Anna's tree claws at it with iron-colored branches. "Could you guide me to this perfect setting for extravagant murder?"

We get back into the car, George driving this time, conversation giving way to a quiet cogitation as we all think about what we might find at our destination. Despite my theatrics, Zach, we both know what the key to all this may be. Let's not share it with the others yet, but it fits with the profile so far. Who could so brutally mutilate a beautiful young girl, then display such powerful adoration after her death? As with everything to do with this case so far, the answers come in twos. That upside-down peace symbol... Peace, and... What was that other word our neighbor was always spouting, Zach?

That's right.

Love.

And love makes the world go round.

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Reviews would be... rejuvenating!


	13. chapter 12: Trailer Park Boys

And now for something slightly different.

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** CHAPTER 12: TRAILER PARK BOYS**

**TIME AND LOCATION: 12:24, trailer****  
WEATHER REPORT: Sporadic light showers  
FORTUNE: "The strength of a family unit comes from meaningful bonding experiences."**

"Son, I'm going over to Sallie's to check up on her. You wanna come with?"

Richard Dunn pokes his head in, sees Quint jumping up from where he'd been tinkering with the bright orange Kawasaki Ninja resting on its kickstand in the corner of the trailer.

"Jeezus, dad! You might've knocked first before bargin' in like that!"

Richard laughs at the outrage on his son's face. "What's got you all jumpy like a jackrabbit? I'm your dad, not some psychopathic serial ki-"

He falls silent, at the same time Quint's face grows pale under the brim of his hat. After a while, Richard says quietly, "I didn't mean that. My mouth just took off without me, just like it always does."

"I know, dad."

Another too-long pause. These gaps, Richard fears, are getting wider every day, have been ever since the murder. But he knows he's lying to himself again. They've been growing way before that, maybe even as far back as when Quint was just turning fourteen, on his way to becoming a man, when things with Lisa started going bad. Four long years later, and Richard is back where he'd started, practically a bachelor again. No commitments or responsibilities besides running the dart bar and keeping his head above trouble; easier now that he's older, and a little bit wiser.

Quint, though, makes these plans to lie low somehow more difficult. Richard always feels a strange sort of longing looking at the boy, not sure whether it's Lisa he's missing, or Sallie, or just a slow-burning desire to jump in a time machine and go back to when he was that age, still able to fool around as he pleased, messing around with busted up cars from Lysander's junkyard and trying to avoid his father's clumsy fists as they sailed drunkenly through the air towards his head.

Well, maybe sometimes the past isn't worthy of nostalgia after all.

Quint is staring at his father with a funny expression. "Did you just come in here to space out, or is there something you wanted?"

"Don't take that tone with me, son. I asked you the first time: I'm headin' over to Sallie's, make sure she's still okay. You coming or what?"

Richard sees Quint's eyes dart over to the motorcycle, then back up to his father's face. He doesn't exactly manage to make eye contact.

"Well, uh-"

"All right. I get it. You keep foolin' around with that damn machine of yours; I'll be back in an hour or so. Don't wait up for lunch."

Richard slams out, the unreasonable anger in his gut boiling away under the light gray skies, leaving nothing but a faint trace of remorse. No real reason to get mad at the kid for being just that- A kid. Hell, Richard of all people should be the last to accuse anyone of being selfish or uncharitable. Maybe it's just the gaps that frustrate him, those ever-expanding potholes that force him to leap ever farther in order to reach his son. He wonders when the day will come that he's no longer able to make the jump, and forces himself to cut off that train of thought. He tries instead to fill his mind with images of the woman he's going to see, her blonde hair and the slow, lazy laugh that had all but disappeared since Anna's death... By the time he's in his car, speeding down January Way with the radio set to some stupid jazz station, they seem to blend together in his mind, Quint and Sallie, Sallie and Lisa, Anna and Quint, a low-key whirlwind of sadness and guilt that's just strong enough to keep him within its orbit, but not strong enough to move him forward...

Alone once more in his trailer, Quint Dunn plops down on the couch with a groan of horror. A near miss, every time. He's really got to find a more private place to hide the stuff, or not only will he be in deep shit, Becky will get in trouble too. He can't have that, especially since she's the only reason he's doing any of this.

Wanting to punish himself somehow, he digs in the pocket of his jeans and withdraws the tiny package he'd been about to drop in the fuel tank of his bike just before his dad barged in. A small Ziploc bag, filled halfway with a red powder, barely enough to coat a baseball in. But it's more than enough, it's more potent than any of the other stuff Quint's seen being dealt around the back of the school, and now that he's graduated, he and his bike can go on tour. A few round trips to some of the other hot spots around the surrounding area, and he'll have enough scratch to get out of the game just as he is getting into it. He just needs enough money for one thing, just one, and then as soon as he's got it, that's it. Over. Finito.

The thought of having a solid plan comforts him, and he gets up to drop the bag in the tank as planned. Just as he's doing so, he catches sight of a police cruiser just outside the trailer park. Panicking, Quint drops the bag directly into the hole without first securing it to the fuel cap.

"Goddamnit-"

He swears, just as he realizes the cop car isn't stopped at all, it's just slowly passing by, observing the speed limit just like every do-gooder driver in this town. Quint is all about speed, so to him, any slavish observation of the rules of the road is bound to look sluggish. He curses again and goes out to find something to dig the bag out with. It's raining steadily, adding to his foul mood as water drips off his hat and down the back of his neck. He has to keep reminding himself of why he's going through with all of this.

Dammit, Becks, he thinks, resisting the urge to call her cell. Get home as fast you can. I don't think I can sit much longer on this, I hate doing this without you, god, please come home now...

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Reviews would be... dynamite!


	14. chapter 13: Lumber Mill Blues, Part I

In which York and Zach wander off, and bad things happen.

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**CHAPTER 13: LUMBER MILL BLUES, PART I**

**TIME AND LOCATION: 12:24, Moyer's Lumber Mill  
WEATHER REPORT: Steady rainfall, possible thunderclouds  
FORTUNE: "Avoid dark places such as mine shafts, or you will come to regret it."**

The lumber mill looms like the husk of an ancient, long-dead creature in the police car's windshield, the glaze of rainwater on the glass giving its silhouette a wavering, ethereal quality. Bits of machinery and metal scaffolding, blackened from years of heavy industrial use, jut outwards from the main building, furthering the impression that some massive insect had shed its exoskeleton here and then moved on, leaving the discarded shell to rust. York gets out of the car and looks up at it, awed beyond words.

"Pretty scary place, right?" Emily walks over to stand beside him, looking more than a little chilled, and not just because of the weather. "Like George said, it closed down soon after I became deputy. Even when it was still operational, back when I was in high school, I've never been inside."

"Doesn't exactly look like the ideal place for a field trip."

They have to raise their voices above the sound of the rain, each drop amplified as it strikes every hollow and strut of the structure's steel exterior. George ambles up, eyes shadowed under his hat. "Deserted buildings are perfect for criminal hideouts and activities," he grunts. "Harry inherited it from his father, and he let it go to pot. I keep telling him to have the place torn down, but..."

"But it's a little late for that." York feels Zach scanning the area for any signs of a struggle. "After all, it's already been used as the site of Anna's murder."

"You don't know that for sure, Agent Morgan. We all know you're a hotshot city detective, but even you can't leap to conclusions without hard evidence. And a bit of rusted metal is hardly grounds for a homicide."

Emily agrees. "You do seem very confident about all of this." York laughs softly.

"Confident? No. Confidence is being trapped between ignorance and desperation. I'm merely tracing a pattern, that's all. All crimes are based on a pattern, and it's my job to reconstruct those events based on natural conclusions drawn from the facts we have seen."

Emily shrugs. "Sounds like being full of confidence to me."

"He's full of something, that's for sure," George says under his breath. "Can we please get on with it?"

Flashlights out and guns drawn, the three venture in through the front gate and into the damp darkness of the mill. Even after being shut down for only a few years, the place looks like it's been abandoned for centuries. Every surface is coated with a thickening layer of grime that refuses to be washed away by the spouts of water pouring in through the leaky roof. Wherever the beams from their flashlights hit, they see dark patches like dried blood, rust having eaten through the metal until it looks like swiss cheese. Stacks of felled logs form an untidy maze, and York is reminded of his nightmare in the hospital morgue. Perhaps this place is haunted by the ghosts of trees, forever waiting for their turn to be cut up into cordwood, never truly knowing the reason for their deaths.

After a while, York comes across the skeletal remains of a large metal construct built into the middle of the floor, perhaps once part of a band saw, though the blade appears to be missing. He moves along the length of a derelict conveyor belt and eventually finds himself separated from the others.

"This place is enormous, Zach!" He has to whisper, due to the possibility of an echo. "A perfect place to hold a secret sacred ritual."

"Agent York?" Emily's voice carries faintly through the moldy shadows towards him. "I haven't found anything over here yet."

"Me neither," calls George, sounding even farther away. "We can keep looking, but I won't be convinced until I see it with my own eyes."

On the spur of the moment, York decides not to answer back. He and Zach are tired of having to wait up, having to explain things, having to put up with Emily and George's constant routine of doubt. He switches off his flashlight and, with only the faded light streaming in through broken windows to guide him, begins to wander further into the darkness. Zach calls his attention to a boarded up door tucked away between two log piles, and York has to turn he flashlight on again to examine it.

Somewhere in the back of his consciousness, he registers George and Emily calling his name. But their voices are drowned out by the static filling his mind as he takes in what his light has revealed, spray-painted in bright red over the boards nails across the door: An upside-down peace sign.

York sets about with a nearby crowbar in wrenching it open. Reddish brown flakes swirl around his head and shoulders, and his tucks his face into his arm to keep from inhaling any dangerous particles. It's lucky that he continues to hold this position as he ventures into the next chamber, for as soon as he steps through it, the door slams behind him, leaving him staring down into a mist-filled room writhing with Shadows. The breath he'd been about to take seconds ago stops in his throat and stays there, and he feels Zach tightening his hand around the crowbar. His gun is tucked away in its holster, but it feels like a million miles away.

The door he'd just come through is barred by a thick wall of red ivy, so there's nowhere to go but down the metal steps and into the midst of the creatures. The Shadows here are dressed for the job, wearing plaid flannel, work boots and hard hats, and all of them are men. For some reason, York finds this to be a relief. It's not easy shooting anything with vaguely human characteristics, but that first one, the dark-haired woman in the floral print dress, still seems like his most disturbing encounter. He plots out a quick course through the fog swirling below him, and just before setting a foot on the first step, dares to take a quick gulp of air.

The effect is immediate, as if he'd loudly told a racist joke at a dinner party; their heads all swivel bonelessly on their shoulders until he's staring into a sea of ravaged, chalk-white faces, gaping eye sockets pointed directly at him. By the time the moans start up again, he's already on the move, holding his breath and keeping his arms and shoulders tucked in so as not to brush up against any that might accidentally stray too close. Still, he can hear what they're saying all too well as he passes by:

"Ki-i-i-lll hi-i-i-immm..."

"Where are yo-o-ou-u-u..."

He pounds up to the exit on the other side of the room and bursts through, just as his lungs are giving out. Zach's warning comes too late; someone has forcibly removed the stairs leading down from the door on this side, leaving a pile of twisted, jagged metal below. York narrowly misses impaling himself on it as he falls five feet into a pool of grayish, foul-smelling water, which goes up to his waist when he manages to flounder to his feet, coughing and spitting.

"Zach..." he gags, wiping his mouth, "I never thought I'd say it, but it's times like this that almost make me wish we could call in the cavalry. "

He pauses, head cocked. Then he says, "No, you're right. It would be pretty embarrassing for Emily to see us like this. Not to mention, George would never let us live it down... Okay, Zach, we're on our own, just like we wanted. Where to next?"

At this juncture, there's only one passageway open for travel. It's narrow and filled with water, but there's no way York is going to be able to go back the way he came, so he presses onwards. Steam pipes run down the hall over his head like the digestive tubing of the mill-monster's innards. Red tendrils dangle from above into the water, feeding on who knows what kinds of disgusting bacteria are proliferating beneath the surface. York shudders, tries not to think about it.

Miraculously, his gun still appears to be working; maybe a side effect of this otherworldly plane is that firearms will function properly where clocks refuse. He holds it in his right hand, but keeps the crowbar in his left, just in case there are more boards that must be pried off. And, lo and behold, there is an opportunity to do so at the end of the hallway, the floor sloping up gradually so that by the time York reaches the door, only his shoes are submerged. He gets to work with the crowbar, putting in more exertion than needed in an attempt to rid himself of the dread starting to weigh him down.

What they finds inside the next room lifts their spirits somewhat. It's a bunker of sorts, where the mill workers must have taken naps or changed out of their uniforms at the end of the day. There are beds, unusually clean and well made, and a row of metal lockers at the far end. A small folding table on which lie a few scattered playing cards sits against the wall, but Zach spots something far more interesting on the wooden desk next to it: A white telephone.

"Is it still operational?" York wonders, and it must be, because as soon as the words are out of his mouth, it starts to ring.

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Reviews would be... desirable!


	15. chapter 13B: Jukebox Interlude

**CHAPTER 13.5: JUKEBOX INTERLUDE  
****  
TIME AND LOCATION: ?  
****WEATHER REPORT: ?  
FORTUNE: "Music hath Charms to sooth a savage Breast/ To soften Rocks, or bend a knotted Oak." -William Congreve, **_**The Mourning Bride**_

Zach, can you do me a favor? I know it's stupid, but... I want you to sing for me. Anything will do. A pop song, rap, country... Well, maybe not country. And maybe not rap. Whatever, it's not like we listen to that kind of stuff anyway, so feel free to pick something. I won't be upset with your decision, I promise.

...Really? In this situation? Yeah, yeah, I know I said I wouldn't complain. It just seems a little obvious, that's all. But, regardless, it is a great song. You're not the most cheerful guy I know, Zach, but you do have great taste in music.

Whenever you're ready, then.

Play it again, Zach.


	16. chapter 14: Lumber Mill Blues, Part 2

If an elevator falls and there's nobody around to hear it, does it still make a sound?

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**CHAPTER 14: LUMBER MILL BLUES, PART II  
**

**TIME AND LOCATION: ?  
WEATHER REPORT: ?  
FORTUNE: "Today, good fortune will elevate you to new heights."**

_I'm a street walking cheetah with a heart full of napalm  
I'm a runaway son of the nuclear A-bomb_

The words reverbrate in York's head as he leaps over a wooden crate and crouches down behind it, trying to catch his breath. He's listening for the sound of heavy footsteps, the scrape of an axe head against the ground, the wet and muffled breathing of the dangerous animal pursuing him. It's the man- no, the _thing_- dressed in red again, York thinks. The demonic figure from the hospital has followed him here somehow. It knows we're getting close, Zach; it doesn't want us knowing what it knows...

_I am a world's forgotten boy  
The one who searches and destroys_

Even though he can "hear" Zach's voice, it's not in a physical sense; it's as if his ears are operating on a separate channel from the one in his head. The music, far from distracting, serves to keep him calm, gives him something to focus on besides his hunger and fatigue and the way his wet clothing sticks unpleasantly to his skin. It reminds him of when he and Zach were trying to get through high school together, York locking himself in a bathroom stall at lunch break until he was pretty sure his tormentors- either of the teacher or classmate variety- had given up the hunt for him. Zach always sang something to keep him occupied as he perched miserably atop the toilet tank, gangly and sullen, unable to understand how he'd gotten into this situation. What had he done to deserve it? Why was he always the chased, never the chaser? By the time he'd graduated, he still hadn't known the answer to those questions, and neither had Zach.

_Honey, gotta help me please  
Somebody gotta save my soul  
Baby, detonate for me_

But he's not in high school any more. And he's sick of hiding in locker rooms.

_Look out honey 'cause I'm using technology  
Ain't got time to make no apology_

A jarring rattle through the floor prompts York to peek over the top of the crate, down the twisted corridor that is filling rapidly with plumes of purple fog. He sees yellow sparks in the darkness down there, making their maddeningly deliberate way towards him. The sparks are accompanied by the grating shriek of a metal blade being dragged across the floor. It is the sound of a weapon thirsty for flesh to bite into.

Gripped by the sudden sharp urge to stand up and fire blindly into the thing's glowing yellow eyes, York instead heads further down the corridor, hoping to find more open ground in which to strategize. In these narrow passageways, he will have no chance in a fight if he finds himself cornered.

_Soul radiation in the dead of night  
Love in the middle of a firefight_

York catches himself regretting having left the bunker room, though the decision had not really been his own. When the phone rang on its hook, it had startled him badly. He'd held the receiver to his ear anyway, having no idea what to expect. For a moment he had even entertained the hopeless possibility that the caller might be someone familiar, George or Emily or even Bob Abrahams, even though logic dictated that the chances were unfathomably low. He is not in the world as he knows it, he is in some Other World, where red plants have invaded, time flows unpredictably and corpses rise to life from within clouds of purple smoke as if he is trapped in a Michael Jackson music video.

So it follows that the voice on the other end of the line would speak in malevolent tones that barely register as English, or even human.

"_Eye... schee... yeww..._"

The line went dead. York remembers carefully putting the receiver back on the hook, surprised that his hands were so steady, and taking advantage of this fact to light a cigarette. There was no point in trying to contact outside help; the phone was an agent of the dark forces surrounding him, and it could only be a waste of energy.

So he had fled the room, just in time as it turned out, for the demon in red had not merely been bluffing during its brief call. York, holding his breath and hiding behind a massive water tank, saw it enter the empty bunker, heard its terrible roar of disappointment when it realized its prey had vanished, and after that he hadn't stuck around to find out the depth of the thing's wrath.

_Honey, gotta strike me blind__  
Somebody gotta save my soul  
Baby, penetrate my mind_

Now York is getting fed up. It hasn't even been his first full day on the investigation, and if the monarchy's insistence on hampering the flow of his work hasn't been bad enough, this is the third time he's been accosted by horrific ghouls whose intentions are nebulous save for the obvious goal of wanting to kill him. He's had crazy assignments before, assignments that have plunged him so deeply into the darkest waters of the human condition that he'd wondered if he would ever resurface. But this has nothing to do with humanity. This is something else altogether.

_And I'm the world's forgotten boy  
The one who's searchin', searchin' to destroy_

Up ahead, York catches sight of what looks like a bank of tiny blinking lights, possibly a control panel of some sort. His heart leaps in different directions as two realizations hit him simeltaneously. The first is that the lights are part of a massive elevator installation, still operational by the looks of it, and the lift is stopped on this floor. The shaft is surrounded by a wire gate, currently wide open, calling him towards safety and escape.

The second realization is that the sound of the axe head scraping along the ground has stopped. Without even turning around, due to some subconscious instinct or more likely a jittery beat from Zach, York knows it's because the axe is currently raised above its owner's head, ready to be flung like a tomahawk across the narrowing distance seperating its blade from York's brain.

York lets his legs collapse under him, an easy task given the circumstances, and he hears a piercing whistle as something whirs over his left shoulder, nicking a few threads out of his suit. He rolls upright and sees the axe bury itself in a large metal pipe protruding from the ceiling and leading through a hole in the floor; great gouts of steam begin issuing from it, mingling uneasily with the cold purple fog already present in the room. York whirls around, gun raised, looking for the two glowing orbs that mark the demon's eyes. Even with the smokescreen blanketing his vision, they aren't hard to spot. They're less than five feet away from him, and getting closer.

_And honey, I'm the world's forgotten boy  
The one who's searchin', only to destroy_

In all his years as an agent, York's trigger finger has never moved so quickly, nor has his aim been so steadily held to its target. Survival is the mother of precision. He puts almost the whole clip into Big Red's face, or where he guesses the face ought to be under that hood, backing up the whole while towards the elevator gate.

But the thing doesn't drop, it keeps on coming, and this is the first time York has been able to see it so clearly. It's over six feet tall, broad shouldered and long of limb. It's hard to make out any more distinct details, though, for most of it is clad in an old, ragged raincoat the color of clotted blood drying on a hardwood floor. Its huge hands are sheathed in thick black gloves, mercifully empty of any other weapons, though they are deadly enough without an axe to swing. And even at this proximity, York can see nothing beyond the shadows covering its hooded face, nothing except those alien eyes glaring with a cold, dead, hungering light into his own. He fires into them again, almost at point blank range, and they don't even flicker.

York feels a deep, stuttering vibration in his chest and ears, and it takes him a precious moment to identify what it is: The monster is laughing at him. And when glances involuntarily towards the purple sparks suddenly bursting in his peripheral vision, only to see the axe dislodge itself from the pipe and bound back to its master's hand like an obedient puppy, he lowers his gun and makes a break for the elevator.

So much for trying to stand up to bullies, York thinks as he runs. People like that always come out on top.

_Look out honey 'cause I'm using technology  
Ain't got time to make no apology_

York leaps into the caged area and onto the lift platform. There's nowhere to go but up, so he pounds on the button and prays he will not hear the screech of a malfunctioning motor, or worse, nothing at all. The lift jerks under his feet and begins to grind its way upwards, not without an agonizing reluctance to move any faster. And the doors are still open. The electrical system may have malfunctioned, York thinks, just as he sees the demon in the red raincoat stepping unhurriedly into the cage with him, axe held loosely in both hands across its chest as the lift struggles to rise beneath their feet.

York hears that terrible laughter again, and he can't help but join in, the joke so sick that it's painful.

_Soul radiation in the dead of night  
Love in the middle of a firefight_

Hearing Zach's voice, still singing as if nothing is wrong, brings York back to himself. The lift is old, but it's industrial, and wide enough to provide some room for manueverability. York tries to imagine that it's as big as a basketball court, basketball being the only high school sport he might have had a chance of making if he'd been more motivated to pursue it. Skinny sixteen-year old York Morgan always preferred track and field to team activities, though. He and Zach would carry on entire conversations as he ran, the rest of the world blurring away beyond the horizons of their own private universe. It was bliss, until its inevitable rupturing by the sharp intrusion of reality.

KRANG!

York dives and rolls to avoid the axe plunging again towards him, the blade parting atoms on its way down. It strikes the metal floor and leaves a brutal gash five inches deep, just one of a series of similar wounds scattered at random around their feet. To a non-participating observer, it almost looks like a sort of violent dance routine, the gashes forming a pattern of movement as the two figures circle each other, one warily, the other mockingly. The one in red makes a gesture with one hand as if to bid York come closer, so it might whisper a private revelation in his ear. York is pretty sure the revelation will be the swift removal of his head, so he remains where he is, weaving cautiously with his gun pointed down and to his right.

_Honey, gotta strike me blind__  
Somebody gotta save my soul  
Baby, penetrate my mind_

He wonders many many floors they've passed so far. It doesn't even feel like they're moving. But they are; he can see the walls of the shaft descending past the platform, moving at a glacial speed. If he could spare the energy to be amazed at how long he's been able to hold his ground, he would be; but if he pays any attention to his empty stomach, his lack of sleep, and the steadily dwindling number of bullets left in his gun, he might take a dive and never get back up. It's like trying not to think of pink elephants when someone's told you not to think about pink elephants, and the more he tries to concentrate on the fight, the worse his reflexes seem to get. Even keeping a firm grip on his gun is starting to seem like a challenge.

The monster takes another swing at him, and this time York doesn't so much dodge it as stumble sideways, landing hard on his side and knocking the breath out of himself. His thoughts crawl dizzily across the floor of his mind, blurring in and out of focus even as he feels the massive gloved fingers of the killer closing around his throat and lifting him into the air.

What's he playing at? York wonders, almost in a dream-like trance, feeling the deadweight of his own body dangling limply in the creature's grasp as if he is no longer inhabiting it. There's no way to effectively use a long-handled axe like that if he's holding me at so close a range... He should have killed me with one blow to the skull while I was on the ground. Then it'd all be over, we could be drinking pals, hang out at a bar somewhere, put the past behind us...

The fingers around his throat begin to squeeze. Purple sparks swarm across York's vision like fireflies during mating season, each burst of light bringing a fresh wave of agony. He kicks out and strikes nothingness. It's as if he's been ejected into outer space, suspended in a dark void with nothing to hold onto... The only thing still connecting him with the physical world is the collar of pain wrapped around his neck, growing smaller with each passing second, the purple fireflies breeding like crazy now, busting into orgiastic supernovas before his eyes as they roll back in their sockets, mouth begging wordlessly for air, that unholy laughter shaking apart the echo chamber of his ribcage from within, darkness closing-_  
_

_And I'm the world's forgotten boy  
The one who's searchin', searchin' to destroy_

On the brink of consciousness, York feels something like a warm, white light sliding down the length of his right arm, down to his hand, into his fingers still wrapped around the grip of his pistol. His arm no longer belongs to him; it's being controlled by some other force, his nerve endings now part of it, veins pumping neon instead of blood...

Zach, still sending the words of the song into the emptiness of space, lifts the gun, takes a moment to aim, pulls the trigger.

_And honey, I'm the world's forgotten boy  
The one who's searchin', searchin' to destroy_

The sound of the gun going off is a sonic explosion that wipes out the purple fireflies instantly, leaving York's vision clear. The first thing he sees is a crazy, skewed glimpse of the top of the shaft as the elevator shudders to a stop, hitching wildly on its rails and throwing the killer off balance. York tumbles to the ground, oxygen rushing back to his lungs.

Zach's bullet has lodged itself in one of the control panels on the far side of the lift, disrupting some governing mechanism used in the brake system. The platform jerks to a stop, the doors open, and York barely has to roll sideways until he's lying on solid concrete, free of the elevator. He raises his head blearily, just in time to see the thing in the red raincoat turning towards him, still in the cage, a dark soundless rage gathering around it like a stormcloud. Then it stops, and York swears he sees those lantern-like eyes widen in surprise as the elevator gates slide shut between it and York. He sees the scarlet raincoat moving behind the metal grate as it begins to demolish the barrier with its axe; then, almost anticlimactically, it disappears from view as the lift drops back into the darkness from which it came. A primal wail floats up the now unoccupied shaft, then fades under the neutral rumble of noble, unseen machinery. It's as if even the elevator knows that Hell is the only proper place for a demon.

_Forgotten boy, forgotten boy  
Forgotten boy, said hey forgotten boy_

The last chords of "Search and Destroy" fade as York lies on his back, eyes closed and chest heaving. The purple fog creeps hesitantly around his motionless body, as if aware of his temporary victory over its axe-wielding master. York stirs, and the fog appears to come to a conclusion, sinking back into the pores of reality and taking all the other trappings of nightmare it had borne to the mill with it. When York finally opens his eyes, he sees nothing more sinister than the usual dust and ruin of neglect... With the demon vanquished for now, the mill has been restored to its former dilapidated nature. Here on the top floor, the sun is shining through weathered holes worn through the metal siding of the roof. Rainwater drips steadily from the crumbling edges of the holes. Outside, a flock of tiny birds heckle each other as their shadows dart among the piles of debris strewn across the damp floor.

York gets to his feet, the taste of copper still lingering in his mouth, and peers through weak shafts of light at the dark shapes beyond. A slight breeze moves past him, and he hears a rustle from the far end of the room... His muscles tense with the last reserves of adrenaline left in his body. A crimson veil drifts into view, languid, like the beckoning arm of a beautiful woman lying just out of reach. York follows it with his eyes, a smile spreading across his aching face.

"Unfinished business, Zach," he croaks, wincing as the bruises on his neck throb. "King George ought to be satisfied with this little piece of evidence. Let's go tell the others what we've found..."

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Reviews would be... forever cherished!


	17. chapter 15: Altar Egos

In which Animagess returns from a wedding and buys another copy of Deadly Premonition for her little brother and sister.

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**CHAPTER 15: BIG EGOS, ALTAR EGOS AND ALTARS**

**TIME AND LOCATION: 16:34, Moyer's Lumber Mill  
WEATHER REPORT: Sunshine, partly cloudy  
FORTUNE: "Better to be dead than red, though some unlucky few will end up as both."**

I'm standing around with an unlit cigarette in my mouth, watching police officers putting up yellow tape and getting their hands all over my nice clean murder site, when I hear someone cough behind me. I turn around slowly, eyebrows raised.

"If you're so desperate, why don't you smoke two at once?" George stands with his thumbs hooked in his pockets, nostrils flaring. Emily is beside him, looking just slightly less like an angry bull. In response, I dig out my lighter with great deliberation and hold it up to the tip of my cigarette. To my relief, the thing actually works the first time I flick the wheel. Otherwise the effect would have been spoiled.

"Agent York, this has gone on long enough. We deserve to know why you disappeared this morning, and why you wouldn't respond when we repeatedly called your name!" Emily is uncharacteristically livid, blue eyes blazing. "Is this some sort of glory play for you? This case is not just about putting another feather in your cap. This is cold-blooded murder!"

"Nobody's more aware of that fact than I, Emily." I take a long drag, looking over her shoulder at the activity centered around the set piece at the far end of the floor. "After all, I am the one who first discovered the altar where Anna was sacrificed."

"I- you-" Emily sputters, then throws up her hands in surrender. "George, I can't take any more of this. Let's just go over the details of Agent York's little discovery, okay? I need to focus on the task at hand."

George shakes his head at me as he flips open a small notepad. The cover has a silver squirrel embossed on it, as well as a tiny capital T; must be Thomas' handwriting in there. We make our way under the police tape to where long, sinuous ropes of red fabric run from the ceiling down to metal rings pounded into the floor, forming a sort of scarlet pavilion above our heads. Before us is a makeshift dais, studded with tall brass candelabra and the waxy remains of several white candles that have long since melted to lumps.

In the center of all this stands a plain wooden table: four legs, nothing special. The only significant detail is the color of its paint: A deep dark red, almost black, applied liberally but without any apparent thought as to its aesthetic effect. Bare patches of wood still show through in some places, but the top of the table and the floor around its legs are thick with congealed blood. We don't need Ushah's lab expertise to tell us whose, do we, Zach?

George reads aloud from the notebook, as well as adding his own commentary. "Still no sign of the murder weapon, but it's obvious that this is where the killing wound was administered. Also found near the scene were a fake plastic fingernail of the kind worn by the victim, and a few strands of red hair."

"Red hair? Not exactly common. With a population like Greenvale's, it shouldn't be too hard to track down someone matching that description, right?"

"Maybe you think Fiona did it?" George snorts. "There still isn't any evidence pointing to someone from around this area. There's still a possibility that the killer is from out of town… An outsider. Like yourself, Agent Morgan."

Zach, can you imagine Freckly Fiona from the hospital carrying out such a heinous act? Even with all those crime novels she reads, George must be out if his mind to even suggest she might have anything to do with this. Of course, we'll have to check her alibi just like everyone else, but you and I are 100% she has zero relevance to this case.

As for the implication that we might be somehow be involved… Ah, Zach. George could give M. Night Shyamalan a run for his money.

"But there is something to suggest that our unsub is, in fact, a resident of Greenvale," I say, blowing smoke away from the crime site. "Remember: She wasn't drugged, nor was she tied up. And yet somehow the killer managed to bring her all the way out here to the lumber mill without any signs of a struggle? I find that hard to believe."

"I'd ask you what your theory is, but I have a feeling you're going to tell us anyway," Emily says grimly.

"The only answer is that she _knew_ the perpetrator." I raise a finger towards the red drapery overhead. "She was lulled into a false sense of security because she had a non-hostile relationship with whoever killed her. She probably trusted him, perhaps even loved him. That's how he was able to get so close to her, close enough to bite off her tongue, and then disembowel her with one swift, fatal stroke."

I mimic the motion of a knife plunging through the air, and Emily jumps. "The shock of betrayal, or perhaps resignation to her fate, is what prevented her from fighting him off until it was too late. The broken nail and the strands of hair may have been part of her last-ditch attempts to escape, but it wasn't enough of a conflict to show in the autopsy."

I can almost see it now, Zach… The two of them, Anna and the man who would take her life, coming up in the elevator while locked in a deep embrace… She raises her head and laughs, showing the beautiful soft whiteness of her throat... It's pouring outside, but here, in his arms, she's warm and safe… She's been to the mill many times with him before, fooling around, playing at being lovers, but nothing too serious… They waltz slowly onto the top floor, swaying a bit, her back turned to the surprise he has waiting at the other end of the room, the white candles lit and flickering like hundreds of tiny yellow eyes… Finally she turns, and notices the altar…

_Oh… Is that… For me?_

_For us,_ he might have replied. _Come here…_

And, still smiling, she lifts her head and parts her lips for a kiss…

"Agent York? I was told to show this to you."

A junior officer stands at my side, holding a thin plastic bag. I hold it up to the light. Inside is the other half of the torn photograph found at the tree where Anna had been discovered. Perfect, Zach! So this confirms our suspicions!

I thank the officer, not before asking him to dispose of my cigarette somewhere where it won't contaminate the scene. George looks like he's about to say something, but I cut in just before he opens his mouth.

"See this, Emily, George? This further substantiates the case against Mr. Peace Sign Tattoo. That mystery man in the vest is almost definitely our prime suspect."

Emily looks at the photo. "It certainly looks like the edges match up to the piece we found at the forest park," she says. "Look here, there was someone else in the picture with him…"

She's right, Zach. Someone's bare arm and part of a shoulder, coming out from the side of the frame, only a sliver of detail, really. Nothing that would hold up in a court of law, of course, but still, we ought to keep it in mind.

"Could it be Anna?" Emily wonders aloud. "If so, who took the picture?"

"I think Zach and I will need a little more to go on before we can profile any further," I say, handing Emily the photo for safekeeping. Then I add, taking care not to sound hasty, "Oh, and please don't ask me about Zach. It's a private matter."

Like we agreed, Zach. Let's not confuse them with unnecessary details.

Another officer comes up to us, saying that they've found something of interest over by the elevator shaft. We head on over to where a group of police are clustered near the rail system, looking at something caught in the grooves where the lift connects to the tracks. They step aside as we come closer, and one of them hands me a flashlight. I wave him off and produce my own, which I proceed to shine into the hidden depths of the lift mechanism.

"There's something stuck back there, Agent Morgan. Like a piece of cloth or ..."

"Please, call me York," I correct him, handing back the flashlight. I take off my jacket and drape it over a nearby railing, then proceed to roll up my sleeves. Hopefully this'll work, Zach. Emily gasps a little as I start to reach into the narrow gap with my bare hand. It's a tight fit, and I'm getting scratched up pretty badly as I grope blindly towards the object I'd spotted. I can feel the edges of it with the tips of my fingers. Just another inch more…

The junior officer clears his throat nervously. "Uh, Agent Mor- York, we do have tools for this sort of-"

"Never mind him," I hear George say. "He does what he wants. If he wants to risk getting tetanus, that's between him and Ushah to deal with."

"Aha!" I pull back my arm in triumph. A thin trickle of blood runs down my wrist as I hold up my prize. It's a scrap of red cloth, torn from some kind of waterproof garment... I think, in our situation, even George would be able to deduce this one. A piece of red raincoat, as worn by our axe-crazy pursuer, ripped off as he returned to the underworld while we made our escape. Nice to know that the monster's fashion sense is at least partially human; this bit of fabric I have between my fingers isn't dissolving into a purple mist or anything crazy just yet. Hopefully that scrap doesn't end up like the rest of the evidence from this case, though we shouldn't count on learning anything useful.

Speaking of being human, I've just realized that I haven't eaten in almost eight hours. And that's not counting the time I lost in the fog during the hospital and lumber mill investigations. I hope my stomach hasn't been rumbling this whole time; how embarrassing would that be? The spirit is willing, Zach, but the flesh is weak.

"York?" Emily is looking at me strangely. I mean, a different sort of strange than usual. Like she's concerned about something. "Are you feeling okay?"

Why is she behaving so oddly, Zach? I was waiting for them to ask me why I went through all this trouble for a simple bit of fabric... It's just the sort of question rural police would ask, having no idea of the bigger picture... I suppose the explanation is a little far-fetched, even by the Bureau's standards, but still. One must always keep an open... What's the word I'm looking for... Mind. That's it.

It's getting a little foggy in here, Zach. Or is it just me? Damn... Are they here again? This is too much. I think... Maybe... I'm going to sit this one out. Wake me when it's over, Zach. If our friend in the slicker shows up... Cuff him, read him his rights... You know the drill... Shouldn't be too hard with all these officers of the law hanging around, though I imagine they won't be too quick on the uptake...

Good...

night...

...

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Reviews would be... ah... I'm not thinking straight...


	18. chapter 16: Dine and Dash

In which a scene takes place that isn't even in the game! How novel!

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**CHAPTER 16: DINE AND DASH**

**TIME AND LOCATION: 17:41, A&G Diner  
WEATHER REPORT: Sunshine, partly cloudy  
FORTUNE: "**_**To a man with an empty stomach, food is god. **_**-George Bernard Shaw"**

"Is he coming around?"

"I... I think so. Nick prepared some of his heartiest broth, so it should kick in any moment now."

Emily smiles reassuringly at the harried-looking woman hovering over her shoulder, lily-white hands clasped in worry. "See, Olivia, this is why we came here before going to the hospital. Nick's food is as good as any medicine. Besides, I knew he was just overworked."

Olivia looks doubtfully at the man slumped across the red leather seat of the diner booth, suit jacket rumpled and tie plastered carelessly across one shoulder. His eyes are closed, making the scar over the left side of his face stand out even more prominently. There's a bandage wrapped around his right hand, and he also smells very oddly of cardamom and pickled beets. Or something like that. He doesn't look so much overworked as recently run over by a train, but Olivia is far too polite to mention it in public.

"Should I feed him some more soup?" she asks, spoon at the ready. Emily has to laugh; for someone with no children, Olivia has quite the maternal streak.

"No, I think he'll be fine. Look; his mouth is moving."

The two woman watch shamelessly as York's head rolls to the side, lips forming silent syllables as if he's talking to someone in a dream. Emily catches something that sounds like "sack" and then he falls silent again, frowning slightly, eyes still shut. Olivia can't help but giggle.

"Oh, my. Didn't you said he was from the government or something? What on earth happened to him?"

Emily glances over to where George and Olivia's husband and head chef, Nick Cormack, are holding a private conversation of their own through the open wall separating the kitchen from the diner's eating area. She sees George make a surly gesture in the direction of the booth where York lies resting, and hopes her boss isn't being too hasty about drawing alliances amongst the other townsfolk. It will be enough effort getting people around here to cooperate without turning all of Greenvale against their main investigator.

"Yes, he's in charge of Anna's case now. He insists on being called Agent York, and I'm sure when he wakes up, he'll give you the full story about his name. He showed up in town, oh, just yesterday, I believe. It feels like so much more time has passed since then, though."

"Yesterday? Really? And he's already passed out in my husband's diner?"

Emily shrugs. "It's apparently a long story, but he's not the most forthcoming person in the world. He is from the FBI, after all. I guess he knows some state secrets or something that he can't let us in on, even if it might help with the case." She pretends to ponder. "Though, if he's always in the habit of talking in his sleep, he might accidentally spill the beans for us."

Olivia puts a hand to her mouth as if to hide a smile. Emily hasn't seen her this amused since, well, ever, actually. She knows Olivia as a kind, gentle soul, but she's not exactly known for her sunny disposition.

As if to confirm Emily's thoughts, Olivia suddenly sobers, her smile leaking away. "I guess I shouldn't be laughing at him, especially given the circumstances... He's here on terrible business. Anna, oh, Anna. I do hope he finds the killer soon!"

"Don't worry, Olivia. Catching Anna's murderer is my only priority."

The women jump at the sound of Agent York's voice, loud and clear but with the slight husk of someone who has just woken up and doesn't want to seem too disoriented. They turn to see him sitting up in the booth, straightening his tie with that infuriating lopsided grin on his face. Emily tries to appear calm.

"How much of our conversation were you eavesdropping on, exactly?"

York yawns. "Just the important parts, I'm sure. You'll be glad to know that I never leak top secret details in my sleep; it comes with the training. No, I was probably just chatting up Zach about this movie I saw when I was about twelve or so. It starred the same guy who played Robocop and it had a ridiculously complicated plot about aliens trying to take over the earth, except these aliens were disguised as humans... Kind of. Jeff Goldblum was in it as well. Do either of you remember what it was called?"

"I think it was called 'Agent Morgan should get his mind off movies and focus on the case'," George says from behind Emily. "Directed by George Woodman, 2006. We should watch it together sometime."

York looks delighted. "George, I didn't know you could be witty! Forget Hollywood; you ought to be in stand-up."

George's moustache seems to droop even further. "I wasn't joking, Agent Morgan. Anyway, if you haven't already been introduced, you should meet the people who practically saved you from starving to death up there in the mill. Nick and Olivia Cormack run the A&G Diner here in Greenvale. Nick, meet Special Agent Morgan from the FBI."

Nick wanders over from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a dish cloth. Emily has rarely seen him outside of the diner's kitchen, much less held a conversation with him; even though she and Olivia are close acquaintances, she's far less familiar with Olivia's husband, whose quiet intensity has always been slightly unnerving to her. York stands up from the booth, supporting himself with his left hand on the table, and raises the other hand in greeting.

"FBI Special Agent Francis York Morgan. Despite what you may have heard, I actually prefer to be called York. Other than that, George's introduction was impeccable."

Nick gazes blandly at York, as if the agent is already wasting his time. "Hey," he says, without any particular inflection. Emily glances at Olivia, who looks a little flushed. She's probably not used to dealing with social situations like this, Emily thinks. There hasn't been a new face in the diner in a long while.

"And you've just met Olivia, I take it."

"Oh, yes! Olivia like the singer, right?"

The others look at each other, except for Nick, who continues to stare at York with a decidedly chilly expression. Olivia's hand goes up to brush back a loose strand of blonde hair escaping from her bun, probably to hide her reddening face. "W-why, um, I'm not sure-"

"Olivia Newton John," York explains patiently. "Not only is she a singer, but she's also an accomplished actress, starring in Grease in 1978 and Xanadu in 1980. And did you know? She was raised in Australia, but most people who saw those movies think she's American as apple pie. Isn't that incredible?"

"Um, yes, I suppose…"

"You should listen to some of her music! You'll learn to love your name." York smiles, then becomes serious. "Oh, speaking of apple pie… Do you make that here?"

"Of course we do," Nick says, without a trace of warmth in his voice. Olivia adds, somewhat more enthusiastically, "We couldn't call the A&G the best diner in the whole state if we didn't have apple pie on the menu, would we?"

"Great. Can I get a slice? I'm still ravenous." York raises a finger. "That soup was fantastic, by the way. My compliments to the chef." Nick grunts.

"Agent Morgan," George says as Olivia and Nick head towards the kitchen, "If you don't have any more business to attend to with the police, I've got some paperwork to go over at the office. Deputy Wyatt can spare a bit of her time to answer any other questions you may have, but if you're going to take a break from the case, you can meet me back at the department in an hour or so."

"Sounds good, George. I do have a few things I'd like to talk to you and the others about, if you don't mind."

"As long as you show up on time," George says, and walks away. Emily and York watch him through the window as he climbs into his personal ride, a black SUV modified for police work with sirens and lights installed on the roof, and drives off. Emily exhales as she lowers herself into the seat across from Agent York, who is applying the same scrutiny to the diner's menu as he had to the binder of evidence she'd shown him at Anna's tree.

"The A&G Diner," he muses aloud. "What could the A&G stand for, Emily? Air and Gravity, perhaps? Aliens and Godzilla? Access and Games?"

"I have no idea," Emily replies, wondering if she has the strength to keep this up. "Why don't you ask Olivia? Here she comes now."

"One slice of apple pie for the FBI agent at table twelve!" Olivia says brightly, balancing a steaming plate on one hand. Emily is sure she's never seen her friend this animated since they've first met. York appears to be on the verge of asking Olivia about the name of the diner, but then she puts his food down in front of him and his eyes light up.

"That golden brown crust… The warm, sensuous filling… And the smell! I can already taste the cinnamon through the air!" York breathes in reverently as Olivia tries to decide whether it's an appropriate time to laugh or not. "Good lord, Emily. Bear with me, but I think we're going to be a while."

Emily assumes York is exaggerating, but another bowl of soup, a steak and fries, two hardboiled eggs with hollandaise sauce, a BLT, a platter of chicken wings and one baked potato with all the toppings later, she finally realizes that York takes his meals seriously. Seriously enough to prompt Nick to leave his cave and come over to the table where all of his orders are slowly but steadily disappearing into York's stomach, with no signs of stopping.

"I have other customers to take care of here, you know."

York pauses to swallow a mouthful of potato before observing, "There isn't anyone else in the diner. Except Emily, that is, and I already offered to pay for her meal. She's a bit of a fool for refusing me, though. This is beyond delicious."

Emily smiles weakly at Nick, who just glares at the both of them. "I'm sorry, I'm not hungry right now. Besides, just watching Agent York eat is making me feel stuffed anyway."

"As long as you have the means to pay for all this…" Nick casts a critical eye over the remains of York's feasting, the dirty dishes from which Olivia has been struggling to keep up with. York brushes crumbs off his tie and grins.

"It's all on the Bureau's bill, so don't worry about it. Oh, before I forget: Do you have any coleslaw? I must warn you though, I'm very particular about my coleslaw, especially the consistency of the-"

"Agent York, we should probably get going," Emily says hastily, pointing to an imaginary wristwatch. "It's been almost two hours already, and you know Sheriff Woodman doesn't like to be kept waiting."

If York is at all reluctant to part with his unfinished dinner, he doesn't show it. He stands up, wipes his mouth with a napkin, and waves at Olivia who is scurrying over with a spray bottle and a cleaning rag.

"My extreme thanks go out to the both of you for the rejuvenating meal. Emily was right about you, Nick- You're a miracle worker with a spatula! I think you can expect constant patronage from me, for as long as I'm in town."

"I'll try to keep my excitement in check," Nick says, arms folded. Emily thinks she can feel him watching them as they walk to the doors, York still making extravagant comments pertaining to his satisfaction with the meal. Olivia sees them outside, her overt perkiness beginning to grate on Emily's nerves.

"Thank you so much for stopping by! We'd love to see you again." Her hands flutter like doves as she tucks back more stray hair strands, the anxiety of the motion undermining her beaming smile. She lowers her voice and adds, "He's not very good at showing it, but Nick was really pleased that you enjoyed his cooking so much. It means a lot to us. We haven't had a new customer for so long!"

York airily waves his hand. "The pleasure was all mine, Olivia. My only regret is that Zach has no idea what he's missing."

"Oh, thank you... Is he another agent?"

"You could say that."

Emily says goodbye to Olivia and gets into the passenger side of her car, York feeling refreshed enough to demand the wheel this time. She catches him reaching in his pocket for something, but he seems to realize that smoking in someone else's car would be a stretch of etiquette, even for him. He drops his hand and sighs, looking distracted.

"Do you mind if I turn on the radio? Music helps me to concentrate."

Emily says, "Sure," knowing exactly what he means. York presses a button on the dashboard, and she sees an almost child-like grin spread across his face when the music begins pouring out of the speakers.

_She came from a happy home  
A very happy home a home of happiness  
Miss personality a grade 'A' student naturally  
She had it all in place_

"You hear that, Emily? I didn't even have to switch stations. This is classic!"

Emily is startled to hear her own name being spoken with such wonderment, as if she had somehow gotten into the radio station and selected the song herself. It's been a while since she's heard it, but York's familiarity with the tune is unmistakable. He pulls out of the diner's parking lot, humming cheerily along with the lyrics.

_But things aren't what they seem  
Is this real or just a dream?  
Things will never ever be the same again_

As York steers them in the general direction of the Sheriff's department, Emily finally allows herself to wonder at his peculiar way of dealing with the other residents of Greenvale. It hasn't escaped her attention that so far, he seems to get along better with the women than the men, though he doesn't seem like the philandering type. And if he really is flirting... He could do with a pick-up line that doesn't reference Xanadu of all movies. Somehow she doubts that he'd meant anything by it, but surely not even York could have missed Nick's reaction to his conversation with Olivia? No, she thinks, nobody could be that oblivious...

_The dangers  
It's the dangers of love  
The dangers, it's the dangers_

And he quite obviously doesn't seem interested in _her_; Emily Wyatt may have a rather low opinion of herself, but she's not stupid. She knows she holds some degree of attractiveness for members of the opposite sex, the evidence lying in the number of times she's been propositioned for dates or cat-called on the streets ever since she moved here. All that stopped once she started wearing her work clothes, and she can't say she misses it one bit. Perhaps York's attitude towards her is simply habitual, an automatic reaction to anyone wearing a police officer's uniform.

_She came from a happy home  
A very happy home a very happy scene  
She caught him with another  
It turns out it was her mother  
What a tragedy_

Still, she can't help but find York's stubbornness when it comes to anyone in a position of authority odd, especially since he hails from one of the most authoritative institutions in the country. There's a sort of regret she feels as she watches the buildings and trees pass by outside her window, the feeling that things with York could have gone a lot more smoothly from the beginning if she hadn't sided so closely with George's suspicion of anything different. She had tried her best to act as mediator, but she feels like a failure on this front. York is a force of nature; he doesn't appear to want or need anybody's help, and she might have to concede that George's attempts to foist their assistance on him is proving to be counterproductive.

_Can things be what they seem  
Is this just some crazy dream  
Things may never ever be the same again_

It's not easy to admit it, but she believes York is right about a lot of things. She believes his conclusions that the suspect was someone close to Anna, someone living in Greenvale at this very moment, very likely someone she knows personally. She will have to be brave enough to accept the truth of this fact when it is revealed; in the meantime, her professionalism will be tested by George's dislike of York and his investigative methods. It's only the first day of the investigation, and already the tension between the two is vibrating at an unhealthy rate.

_Keep telling lies, but you did, you know you did  
It's coming, it's coming, it's coming  
The dangers, it's the dangers of love  
The dangers, it's the dangers_

Emily is no politician, and she hates taking sides. But it's becoming clear that York really is the most experienced and qualified person on the case, despite her personal feelings about him. She closes her eyes and lies back in her seat, feeling the first strains of a stress headache coming on. Beside her, York stops humming and actually sings along to the final verse:

_What went wrong, she couldn't tell  
But we know it all too well  
The dangers, it's the dangers of love  
The dangers, it's the dangers_

Hmm. Not a bad singing voice. The song ends just as York pulls into the station lot.

"Daytime Dilemma, The Ramones," she hears him murmur. "The perfect musical accompaniment to Anna's case, wouldn't you agree?"

Emily doesn't answer. She keeps her eyes closed even as she unbuckles her seat belt and opens the door, looking around only after her feet have touched the ground. She's resolved to stop making resolutions, and just go with the flow. Resistance, as they say, is futile.

Something occurs to her as she and York walk up the steps together, a cool breeze brushing past them as they enter the front lobby. "Agent York, you said you had something to discuss with us when we got back to the department. What did you have in mind, besides reviewing the evidence collected so far?"

York only looks at her as if she's not there, already several paces ahead of needing to explain himself.

"All in good time, Deputy," he says, and heads straight for the Sheriff's office. She has to jog to catch up to him. "All in good time..."

* * *

Reviews would be... Exquisite!


	19. chapter 17: Timeline

In which it does what it says on the package.

* * *

**CHAPTER 17: TIMELINE**

**TIME AND LOCATION: 19:37, Sheriff Woodman's office  
WEATHER REPORT: Cloudy, chance of thunder  
FORTUNE: "You will come face to face with an old friend, though the encounter will be too brief to satisfy."**

I swear that deer head is staring at us, Zach. It could even be the same stuffed deer head I saw in the red forest, though at the time I had that vision, I'd never been inside the Sheriff's office before. It's mounted on the wall behind George's desk, branching antlers nearly touching the ceiling. It doesn't move- of course not, this is reality, not a dream- but those black, glassy eyes still seem to follow me as I walk across the room.

Below the head is a high powered hunting rifle, its wooden stock polished to an almost ridiculous degree. It's not just for show, though. It's obviously the same weapon George used to kill that stag, and he wants everyone to know it. A show of power, and I'd have to admit, a pretty impressive one; perhaps he'll let us fire off a few rounds, Zach? I wouldn't shoot into anything living, of course, we're not barbarians. But there is a primal satisfaction that comes with pulling the trigger of such a quality instrument, almost like a violinist warming up with his bow. In a brutal sort of way, just like profiling, hunting is its own art form.

"Agent York, when you're ready, we can go down to the meeting room. Thomas should have everything set up by now."

George's eyes are as black and almost as cold as the deer's. For the first time looking at him, I notice the faintest traces of an old scar over his left cheek; it's healed over enough that you can't tell what might have caused it. He's been sheriff for quite some time, it seems, so maybe this is what he meant when he said "Greenvale has its share of troubles". Emily and I follow George down the hall to where Thomas has laid out all the evidence collected from the case so far, plastic bags and notebook paper scattered across the table.

What do you think, Zach? Let's take a moment to survey the contents of this rather gruesome purse, as it were. Looking over the table, here is what we see:

_1 red seed, retrieved from the victim's throat during autopsy  
__1 snapped-off heel from a red high stiletto shoe, size 4  
2 halves of a torn up photograph, depicting a man with an inverted peace sign tattooed on his back  
4 lengths of thin industrial-strength wire  
1 rusted metal chip, presumably from the lumber mill__  
1 pink fake plastic fingernail  
A few strands of red hair  
1 scrap of fabric torn from a red raincoat_

It's a little sad, the ease with which we take inventory of death, quantifying the pain and anguish of a person's final moments down to a list that would barely fill one page of Thomas' notepad. You and I have done this so many times before that it's easier to think of it like a puzzle with a definite solution, a Rubik's cube that will snap into place if we figure out the right angles; but one look at Emily and Thomas' faces, and you can tell that they have not yet inoculated themselves against the problem of human empathy. Too much of it, and it can paralyze you, leaving you unable to rationally process the circumstances of the crime; too little, and you lose the very reason for your involvement in the first place.

"Okay, let's review our timeline," I say to the others, who are seated around the table, watching me pace up and down with an unlit cigarette between my fingers. "Thomas, are you taking notes? Good. Then here we go.

"According to your officers' preliminary interrogation of the victim's mother, Sallie Graham, Anna went out early in the morning, when the weather was still quite clear out. She skipped breakfast and told her mother she was going out for the day and probably wouldn't be back until late in the evening. Sallie went to bed at around nine-thirty PM, citing a headache, which incidentally is probably around the time her daughter was murdered."

Thomas shudders at the bluntness of my recap. Poor guy; but we can't be too sympathetic. Police work rarely calls for the sensitive type, and when it comes to murder investigations, Thomas seems like a bird that's had all its feathers plucked.

"What Anna did during the day before she was killed is unknown, but what we do know is that the murder happened sometime between 20:00 and 22:00, while it was raining heavily outside. The rain stopped at around one o'clock, some five to seven hours later, by which time Anna had been removed from the murder site at the lumber mill. When and how she got there, and who she was with, remains unknown; but I am of the firm belief that the killer was a close acquaintance of Anna's, and was able to coerce her to the mill without anticipation of a struggle.

"Once at the mill, Anna was quickly and forcefully cut open from sternum to stomach with a sharp bladed instrument as she lay upon the wooden table found at the site. Her tongue was also removed, bitten off within short notice of the fatal wound that was administered. She may have put up a weak struggle resulting in the loss of one of her fake nails and these torn-out strands of hair, but she died soon after from blood loss and internal trauma."

"What about the seeds?" Emily asks. "I know you're not supposed to talk about them, but shouldn't we know why they're so important?"

"To be honest," I tell her, "there isn't really much to be confidential about. But the only thing I can say to you right now is that these seeds are the key to resolving a series of crimes, crimes that would otherwise seem to be completely unrelated. In other words, I'm following a common thread."

"In other words, you're denying us information that could be critical in helping us solve this case," George says. He's still wearing his hat, even indoors. "Why bother calling us in here if all you're going to do is showboat?"

Zach, I'm getting a little weary of George's constant attacks on our investigative process. It must have shown up in my voice when I reply, "Professional courtesy, perhaps? Your confidence in your team is inspiring, so I'm sure the Greenvale Sheriff's department will work wonders even with what little data I'm giving you." Thomas stops taking notes and glance nervously at the both of us. Emily raises her hands, looking stern.

"Agent York, George, please. Now isn't the time. Agent York, I understand that you can't tell us more about the seeds, so can we please move on to what happened after Anna's body was removed from the murder site?"

I bow my head. "Of course, Deputy Emily. Again, we don't know how the corpse was transported to the forest park, but I think it's safe for now to assume there was a motor vehicle involved. By this time, it had stopped raining, but the soil was still damp and easily impressionable. Once at the park, the unsub strung Anna to that tree with loops of wire tied around her arms and torso. She was naked, except for a piece of red fabric wrapped around her waist, the same fabric that was discovered at the altar. The unsub then knelt before his victim and offered a prayer to consummate his incredible act of violence, turning it into something more... spiritual. The cruciform posture of the corpse, and the ritualistic set-up of the murder scene, strongly suggest religious undertones."

There is a long silence as we all stop to digest this. Thomas breaks in, haltingly adjusting his glasses as he says, "It's almost l-like an awful horror movie or something. Who would have thought this could ever happen in Greenvale?"

"This is no ordinary murder, that's for sure," George asserts. "In all my years, I've only had one case of someone killing another in this town, and the perpetrator turned out to be from another state. He was part of a bike gang, just passing through. There was a bar fight at the SWERY65, just a few months after Richard Dunn opened it for business... This is even before Emily and Thomas' time. Anyway, things could have gotten even more ugly if Richard hadn't stepped in to help."

Hard to tell if Emily and Thomas have heard this story. They're listening with wide eyes, as if their boss has never spoken of it before. George continues, "But Anna's case? It wasn't spontaneous or a crime of passion. It was premeditated, carried out in cold blood. And all this talk of religion and cults... It just doesn't make any sense. We don't even have an established church 'round these parts, just informal gatherings by a group of old ladies holding the occasional bake sale."

"I doubt this has anything to do with religion in the traditional sense," I say. "If it did, the perp might have settled for sacrificing a goat or some such creature instead of a young lady."

"Was that supposed to be a joke, Agent Morgan?"

"Not at all. I was merely citing Biblical accuracy. To continue with our review, the killer finished his ritual under the tree and left the scene. It began raining again soon after his departure, washing away most of his footprints; however, there were another set of footprints discovered there, a third party having approached the body shortly after the killer left. This third party wore high stilettos, completely inappropriate footwear for the territory, and is very likely female."

I light a cigarette, hitting my stride. The only other sounds are that of Thomas' pen, topped with a little rubber squirrel eraser, as he scribbles in his notepad. It will be interesting to see their reactions after I make my final request, Zach...

"However, sometimes the details that are most important are the ones that aren't there. There is one important detail that I have left out. Can any of you guess what that is?"

Thomas timidly raises his hand, prompting George to say, "This isn't a damn schoolhouse, Agent York. Thomas, put your hand down."

Emily leafs through the notes on the table, frowning. "Wasn't there some kind of impression made in the palm of her hand, a symbol of some sort? Ushah said she'd been gripping something tightly in her fist when she died."

I point my cigarette at her in congratulation. "Bingo, Emily. The man in the photo has a tattoo on his back resembling an upside-down peace sign. Anna was holding onto an object in her right hand at the time she was killed, so tightly that the same symbol was imprinted into her flesh. Perhaps a coin of some sort, or a pendant. But where is that object now? What was its significance to the murder?"

"You think Miss Stiletto Heels removed the object from Anna Graham's hand after the killer had left the scene," George says slowly, stroking his mustache with his thumb. "Do you think the he knew the girl who had taken it?"

"If he knew Anna personally, and I'm sure he did, chances are high that he knew Miss Stiletto Heels as well," I say. "She's caught up in all of this somehow, since she never reported this to the police and furthermore disturbed the crime scene by removing important evidence. The first crucial enigma is whether she was working as an accomplice of the killer, or acting for her own mysterious purposes. It doesn't appear as though she and the killer left at the same time, which may mean the killer was unaware of Miss Stiletto's actions after he had prayed to Anna's body."

"After that, the only events we can be sure of are the discoveries of the body by Jim Green and the Ingram twins," Emily says. She nods at Thomas, who fumbles with some loose papers and stammers, "That was around eight or nine in the m-morning, just as Mr. Green was taking his grandsons out for their morning walk. Mr. Green called police from a pay phone, and then w-we... That's where we came in."

Thomas is starting to look a little ill at the mere memory of the incident. I thank him and turn to the window, looking out at the seemingly perpetually gray skies beyond the skyline of the forest. I can feel the doors shutting tight all around us, Zach; this case is like a hallway, stretching far into the distance, each door leading to another door to another. We've gone as far as we can go, to a room where everything is locked up, having run out of meaningful insights... But that's normal at this stage of the game. There is a whole world we haven't yet explored, Zach, a world called Greenvale, just outside the oaken walls of the police station; more than a world, a constellation, even a galaxy of possible suspects and clues forming an intricate web the shape of which we cannot even begin to guess.

And remember what I said about the most important details being the ones left out? Don't pretend like you don't know what I'm talking about Zach. It was your idea, after all- to keep a sample of those strange red flowers growing at the base of Anna's tree. No need to tell the others about it; it's just a simple weed, pretty in its own way, but hardly relevant to forensic science. Still, something about it struck you as odd, and I trust your judgment. We'll go pay a visit to Ushah when we've got the time and find out if his knowledge of organisms extends to plant life as well as humans.

We'll need a DNA analysis of those hair strands as well, just as a formality. Call me superstitious about the color red, Zach, but I have a heavy feeling that this will be another dead end.

"Agent York, there's one more piece of evidence we haven't yet accounted for," Emily says, holding up one of the plastic bags. "This piece of raincoat you found in the elevator shaft. Do you have an explanation for it?"

"You tell me, Emily. Does it strike any of you as peculiar in any way?"

George, Emily and Thomas scrutinize the red scrap for a moment before Emily gives her unexpected answer. "Well, the fact that it's a raincoat is itself a little odd."

"Odd? In a town where it rains so much?" On cue, we hear a far-off rumble of thunder in the distance. Emily shrugs.

"People out here don't tend to go out in the rain. It's been like that ever since I moved here in high school, but I've never really understood why..."

"It's only logical that people avoid the rain, when they can," I say. "Even in big cities, we like to stay indoors where it's dry."

"No, I mean, they _really_ don't go out in the rain. Sometimes, if the forecast isn't looking good for the week, the school shuts down, stores close up, the works. And since there's no reason to go out, people don't tend to wear raincoats." Emily turns to George with a questioning look. "Maybe you can shed some light on this, George?"

George coughs and looks up at the ceiling. He stays like that for a minute, piecing together the words. He seems a little awkward as he looks back at us and prepares to speak.

"Well... It's an old story... A bit of Greenvale folklore, you could say. Foolish superstition, rubbish, nothing more."

I raise a finger. "One man's trash is a profiler's treasure, as they say. What was this fairy tale about?"

George sniffs. "Something to do with a killer who only appears on rainy nights... An urban legend. Like the Boogeyman or Bigfoot, only dressed in a bright red raincoat. Hell, hardly anyone around here even believes it, but we're still a traditional town. I guess some habits are hard to break."

Have you notices how much softer George seems when he's talking about Greenvale's past, Zach? Almost like he's yearning for something, a return to the good old days, perhaps. We're not immune to that feeling either, I suppose, growing up like we did around white picket fences and tulip borders round the edges of those nicely trimmed lawns... It never lasts, though. Just like the rain, nostalgia comes and goes with the weather, leaving only puddles and melancholy in its wake.

I think I'm with the Greenvalians on this one, Zach. Don't even bother with a raincoat; just stay inside and lock your doors, and wait for the sun to come out...

"And now the Raincoat Killer has leapt out from his picture book," I say, stubbing out my cigarette in the ashtray before it burns down to my fingers. "The monster opens the closet door, the nightmare becomes real. Oh, by the way, I have a favor to ask all of you."

"A favor?" George's brow furrows.

"It's more of a direct insistence than a favor, I guess. We'll have to clear out the locker room to do it, but at this hour there probably aren't too many officers needing that space, right? And you do want to clear yourselves off the suspect list-"

Emily stands up as if she's about to say something, but nothing's coming out. Thomas looks startled, and George's face is darkening like a storm cloud. "Agent Morgan, what are you talking about?"

I look each of them in the eye, Thomas, George, and Emily, imposing the weight of what I'm about ask on each of them in turn. They're not going to like this, Zach. Not going to like it at all...

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Reviews would be... Astounding!


	20. chapter 17B: Phone Call

**CHAPTER 17.5: PHONE CALL**

**TIME AND LOCATION: ?  
WEATHER REPORT: ?  
**

_Ring_

_ ..._

_Ring_

...

_Ri-_

"...H-hello?"

"Hey. It's me."

"Oh... Oh god. I thought-"

"Hey now, what's with that reaction? ...No, shhh, calm down, it's okay. I'm right here. I'm with you, see?"

"I... I don't know. I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry. What's wrong? Why haven't you been picking up my calls?"

"It's just... I don't..."

"Is it because of what happened to Anna?"

"No. NO! Don't even say her name!"

"All right, all right, I won't, I'm changing the subject right now. Promise me you'll stop freaking out? Please?"

"I... I'll try."

"Good girl. Do you have the stuff ready?"

"...I forgot. I meant to get it, but..."

"Jeez, Becks! C'mon, I'm putting my neck out there for the both of us here, and now you're tellin' me... Okay, listen. It's fine, it's okay, everything's gonna be all right. When's the earliest I can pick it up?"

"..."

"Becky, please."

"...I don't know."

"Becky!"

"God, Quint, just shut up about it already! I can't get it today, tomorrow, or maybe ever. I can't even leave the goddamn house, not like this! Not with... agh..."

"Becky? What's the matter?"

"Nothing. I just have a headache. Your voice is too loud."

"...Sorry. Is this better?"

"No. I need to go lie down..."

"You want me to come over? We don't have to talk or nuthin'. We could just, y'know, hang out like old times. Remember?"

"..."

"Becky, don't hang up. What's going on? Where've you been for the last couple days? I've been going over to the Milk Barn every day, but you haven't been in-"

"I've been sick. It's nothing serious. I... I'll see you later, I promise, but not right now. Okay? And don't make me say anything about... you know what. I can't promise anything at this moment."

"Dammit, Becky, I... Fine. Gotcha. I just needed to unload one more anyway. It's cool."

"I'm going to go lie down. See you later."

"Yeah. Yeah, see yo-"

_Click._

"...Love you too, Becks."


	21. chapter 18: Back Problems

Thanks to everyone who's been reading so far. It's been fun! In this chapter: People lose their shirts.

* * *

**CHAPTER 18: BACK PROBLEMS**

**TIME AND LOCATION: 19:51, Greenvale Sheriff's department  
WEATHER REPORT: Cloudy, chance of thunder  
FORTUNE: "Someone you know may be affected by aches and pains resulting from poor posture."**

"You want us to show you our _what_?"

Emily is very close to expressing the outrage she'd sworn never to display in Agent York's presence, but everything he does seems like part of a deliberate attempt to provoke it. So much for keeping her cool, then. "Is this related to the case at all?"

"By showing me your backs, it'll alleviate all concerns I might have regarding your innocence in this case," York says calmly, lighting another cigarette. He looks around at them all, head cocked slightly as if he's wondering whether to have fries or salad with his hamburger. "As an outsider to the case, I'm obliged to treat all citizens of this town as potential suspects. That includes you three, unfortunately. That tattoo is the key to uncovering our prime suspect, so it's in your best interests to clear yourselves as quickly as possible."

"I don't care if you're from the FBI or even if you're the president himself!" George says furiously. "You're methods are rude, insulting, and out of the question. And Emily is a female officer! This is harassment, and you, Agent Morgan, are out of line."

"I'm not forcing anyone to do anything. But if you want to earn my trust, this is a necessary first step in the procedure."

Nobody is looking directly at her, but Emily feels their attention like tiny lasers centered on her body. She knows if anyone is going to make a decision, it will have to be her, and the others will defer to it. The pressure weighs on her, like her father's strong hand on her shoulder whenever he wanted to talk to her about something. She had always dreaded those conversations, so indicative of the widening distance between them... But this dread is different, the dread of knowing her choice is not only personal, but a political maneuver.

George turns to her, looking determined. "Listen, Emily, whatever he says, don't feel like you have to do anything you don't want to. Thomas and I can handle it; you can just-"

"George... It's okay. " Emily feels almost as surprised as George looks. A hot ball of anger is growing in her stomach, and she's not sure whether it's because of York, or her boss. "Let's just show him and get it over with."

"Emily! Are you crazy?"

She throws up her hands in exasperation. "Look, I'll be fine. We flash some skin and he won't have any more excuses not to cooperate with us any more. Isn't that right, Agent York?"

She turns and shoots him a look that she hopes will throw him off track, but York just shifts his shoulders inside his suit and continues gazing at them from behind a thin curtain of cigarette smoke. Thomas is wringing his hands nervously, but Emily knows he won't make any objections. She heads towards the door without looking back to see if anyone is following her.

"Come on then, let's do this."

Just as York predicted, there is no one in the locker room, but Thomas locks the door behind them anyway. The smell of York's cigarette mingles unpleasantly with the sweaty odor lingering in the small space as the four of them cluster together between rows of lockers, avoiding each other's gazes. George gets up close to York, hat pulled low over his eyes.

"I'll have you know, Agent Morgan, that I intend to be fully present for your little inspection. There won't be any funny business so long as I'm around, you hear?"

York's voice is cold as he replies, "If you're implying anything beyond strict professional necessity on my part, then I'd advise you to keep it to yourself. Emily, would you like us to move while you get ready?"

Emily shakes her head, wondering why she feels so humiliated when nothing has even happened yet. Besides, it was her decision in the first place. "No. Let's just do it here."

And, taking a deep breath, she unbuttons her police uniform and pulls it off, turning to the wall with her back to the others. Her ears are ringing, every sense alert, and she thinks she hears someone exhaling through their nose, but that's it. She counts to five in her head, one-Mississippi, two-Mississippi, just like her mother taught her when she was a little girl... And then it's over. She turns back as she's doing up the last button on her top, relieved that her heart rate is so steady, that she isn't blushing or anything that might make her seem vulnerable. And why should she be? It had all been as clinical as a trip to the doctor's office... At least, she wants to believe that it was.

"Are you satisfied now?" she says, forcing herself to meet Agent York's eyes as Thomas moves to take her place.

"Yes. My apologies." He looks at her directly but briefly before turning his attention to Thomas, betraying neither satisfaction nor disappointment. His demeanor at this moment, so serious and without his usual abrasiveness, is affecting. Emily wonders if her embarrassment is really that she'd thought York might have had something on his mind other than the investigation when he'd made his request; now it's plain to see that, regardless of previous examples to the contrary, York's transparency this time is genuine. Beside her, George shifts his weight uncomfortably, and she feels an odd protectiveness towards her boss that hadn't been there before.

"Thank you, Thomas. George?"

Thomas is pulling his shirt back on, Emily too preoccupied to notice if anything had been amiss. Obviously he's in the clear, because George is stepping up, grumbling like a kid being sent to the corner for scribbling on the wall.

"Yeah, yeah. I can't refuse now, can I?" He points a finger at York, who is in the process of lighting another cigarette, and adds dangerously, "But don't expect to get your way all the time, Agent Morgan. Once we've all proven our innocence, you can start treating us as peers instead of subordinates."

He takes off his hat and lays it on a bench, then his jacket. Emily is considering not looking- it's none of her business, after all- but then she hears York's sharp intake of air and curiosity overtakes her in an instant.

"George!"

She can't help herself from saying it out loud. Pale red lines, drawn long ago, criss-cross each other like the marks on the scratching post her parents had bought for the pet cat when she was in grade three. They cover George's back from the base of his spine to his shoulder blades, the muscles hard and bulky beneath the mangled skin. There is hardly a patch of flesh that hasn't been touched by the scars, and Emily feels York's shock almost as clearly as her own.

"George," York says carefully. "Where did you get-"

"Just like your Mr. Zach," George says over his shoulder, dark eyes glittering. "It's something... private. None of your business, is it, Morgan?"

York stands still, cigarette smoldering between his fingers, eyes wide and staring. He doesn't appear to be looking at George's back any longer, but rather at some distant object millions of miles from this room that nobody else can see.

"No... Of course. A private matter, just like Zach." He shakes his head slowly, as if in a trance.

"Just like Zach..."

* * *

Reviews would be... outstanding!


	22. chapter 19: Inner Child

Thanks a ton for the comments, guys. It's very much appreciated.

In this chapter, York watches a scary late night movie. Weirdness ensues.

* * *

**CHAPTER 19: INNER CHILD**

**TIME AND LOCATION: 23:06, Great Deer Yard Hotel  
WEATHER REPORT: Lightning and mild thunderstorms overnight  
FORTUNE: "There are only two kinds of people in this world: The young, and the young at heart."  
**

And so our first day of investigation comes to a close, Zach. I think we've accomplished more in these last fifteen hours than we've ever had in a month on other assignments. Bloody sacrificial altars, strange hallucinations, a purple fog filled with murderous Shadows and axe-wielding maniacs, killers in red who only comes out during the rain... and a local sheriff whose back looks like it was mauled by a wildcat. I suppose that's possible, given that we're up in the mountains, but he seemed to take it very personally. We can understand that, right? Those scars were at least a couple of years old, so why poke our nose into it. Still, that's not a sight you forget very easily, even in a line of work such as ours.

Then there's our young Thomas MacLaine. When he stepped up, I was certain he'd be completely clean- but he's the only one out of the three that actually had a tattoo! Incredible! I mean, it would be even more incredible if it was the upside-down peace sign, but I'm almost glad it wasn't. It was one of those hearts with an arrow through it, tastefully inked in black high up over his left shoulder blade. I don't know when he got that done, but we've all been through the eighties... Although I am wondering who the inscription "LOVE G" is referring to.

And then there's Deputy Emily Wyatt. Not much to say about her. ...What do you mean, I've got more on my mind? There wasn't so much as a mole on her back, meaning she's cleared as well. That's all there is to it, Zach.

...All right, you got me. There was something about seeing her like that... I don't mean that I was getting all riled up over the sight of a lady's bare flesh; Emily is undeniably attractive, but it's not like we haven't seen that all before. Yet something about it made me feel... strange. Sad, almost. Like I'd lost something long ago and forgot that I ever had something to lose...

Anyway, that takes care of our colleagues. I asked George if he could have the townspeople in Greenvale gather in one place so we could address them all at once, a public service announcement if you will. There's a murderer loose and it's important we make sure everyone is on the same page when it comes to safety and alertness. We'll be able to kill two birds with one stone, too; since all the suspects will be in the same area, we can do a quick sweep and get a better idea of the scope of the situation, who's related to who, who's acting shady, that sort of thing. Depending on who we talk to, our corridor of locked doors will open up to us, one person at a time. What do you think, Zach? It's gonna be fun...

George said the Community Center would be the best place to do it, but they won't be able to organize everything until the day after tomorrow. Which means we'll have full run of the land for an entire day, all to ourselves! But you know, I'm not looking forward to driving all over town in a police convertible, even though George gave us a set of master keys to use with any car in the lot. I asked him where he had our ride towed, and he gave me the name of the guy who runs the junkyard, name of Lysander. I think we'll have to make that a definite stop first thing in the morning before we head off on other business.

That's all I can manage for today, I think. I've got to relax, turn my brain off in preparation for tomorrow. If my head is too full, there won't be any more room to store new information. Maybe there'll be something mindless on TV; we really must catch up on our movie watching, Zach.

I fumble with the remote control and the screen comes to life with a pop. The first thing that hits my tired eyes is a pulsing, throbbing tumor of mottled flesh, worm-like and mostly mouth at one end, its multiple heads baring blackened, drooling teeth at the camera. It rises from the damp and darkness of a flooded basement, open slit-mouth emitting a deep, guttural drone. The scene cuts away to a young boy of about ten with dark hair plastered over his pale brow, eyes wide but showing no fear, not even when the creature he's facing begins to heave its body, once, twice, squelching noisily all the while, finally vomiting up the shredded, disembodied head of the boy's mother.

Man, we haven't seen this in years. You remember it, right Zach? That's it: The Deadly Spawn, 1983, the only feature-length film directed by Douglas McKeown. The monster design is amazing, just look at all those teeth! It's like it was born into the universe with the sole purpose to eat and devour and consume until nothing remains…

The boy, though, he's our real hero of the moment. Look at him there, standing in an inch of dirty water, staring down a triple-headed alien who clearly means to tear him apart just like it did to his parents… What would we have done in that situation, Zach? Would we have stood our ground like that? Calmly, never taking his eyes off the monster, the boy snaps his fingers. The guttural noises coming from the things mouth's increase, its heads weaving blindly from side to side. The monster responds to sound, the boy realizes; he allows himself to glance down at the useless flashlight dangling from his hand, a plan forming in his mind…

A lightning flash illuminates the hotel room, then fades, leaving the shadows in the corners of the ceiling even darker than before. I lie in bed on top of the covers with the remote in one hand, too tired to turn off the television, not tired enough to drop off to sleep. It's starting to rain again... What is our killer doing now, Zach? This is the perfect night for him to be out, after all. Is he stalking around out there in the woods in that fanciful getup, seeking out another victim? Or is he spending the evening like any other citizen of Greenvale, tucking the kids in, kissing the wife goodnight, pouring himself a fifth of bourbon from the liquor cabinet? Perhaps he's lying on a bed somewhere with the television turned to a channel to which he's not paying particular attention, wondering, on the precipice of sleep, what that pesky FBI agent he ran into earlier is doing at this moment…

Onscreen, through eyelids at half-mast, events get hazy, slow. The boy throws the flashlight into the darkness. It clatters off the wall and lands in the water with a splash. The monster's heads swivel as one towards it, momentarily distracted, and the boy turns and runs up the basement stairs. He doesn't look back. Slipping deeper, I hear your voice in my head, cheering him on. He opens the door at the top of the stairs and

_white light floods through me, into me. There is none of the crackle or spit of the static snow from a dead TV screen; this is pure, unfiltered, noiseless. It recedes, tide-like, revealing the shapes of things hidden beneath: A dressmaker's mannequin, a door of dark metal, an ornate park bench under a crystalline tree. The floor under my feet is submerged beneath a thin pool of clear, mirrored water; I seem to be standing on the surface of it as if it were glass, even though I can see my reflection rippling slightly as I move. All around me thrum the ethereal presence of walls I can feel but not touch, hear but not see. This room is whiteness and bated breath._

_And there, crouching beside the bench, is a tiny figure in blue rocket ship pajamas, tracing aimless patterns in the water with a finger. It's the boy, the one who showed me how to get past the Shadow in the red forest, the boy whose name dances on the edge of my memory. As I approach, I see that what he is tracing isn't random but a symbol, round and round, the outlines of an upside-down peace sign disappearing as soon as they are drawn._

_I crouch down next to him. He doesn't look up, his finger never pausing in its circular path. "I still don't know who you are," I say. He doesn't answer, and all I can do is watch the hypnotic motion of his small hand gliding across the water, white petals drifting around our shoulders as we sit in silence. Seconds, no different from minutes, fall upon the smooth, still pool without disturbing its surface and disappear without a trace. It feels as if I have been here for an eternity, and could remain here for another eternity more if I so chose... But the door is here, it calls me to it, as it always does. Just as I'm about to get up to leave, the boy stops his endless repetition of the pattern in the water. Slowly, he lifts his face to mine. His eyes are the color of a storm before it breaks. And then it washes over me, the realization, cold and hot, hot and cold:_

That's me.

That's me when it happened.

_As soon as the knowledge is part of me, the boy's face suddenly flushes with anguish. He gets up and runs to the door before I can grab him or do anything other than watch numbly as he wrenches it open, knocking over the mannequin, which falls to the floor and shatters into a thousand brittle pieces. The pieces start melting like ice in a steam bath, and I feel a disturbance ripple through the water towards me, coming from the direction of the door, now wide open and leaking inky smoke into the no-longer glassy pool. The boy stands next to it, looking through the open frame, then at me, then at the door again. The dark ink is spreading under his bare feet, making him look as if he's suspended over a bottomless abyss. He looks so terribly vulnerable... Zach, I want to help him somehow..._

_Zach... Zach? _

_I hear you calling my name... Were you behind the door the whole time? Why aren't you here with me? Or are you? Where am I? Who am-_

_The boy reaches his hand towards mine and I grasp it, stumbling as the darkness pours ceaselessly from the doorframe around our legs, freezing and burning at the same time. He still says nothing, only pulls my arm and swings me towards and through the door with a strength that doesn't match his small frame... The last thing I see before the door shuts behind me, leaving me tumbling weightlessly into nothing, is his tiny, pale hand waving goodbye against the dark._

_I fall and fall, and wait for you to catch me._

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NOTE: The clip of Deadly Spawn described in this chapter is totally for reals. You can even watch it on Youtube! Just remove the asterisks from the link below and you should be good to go. It's actually pretty disturbing, and the first image you see is apparently the mother's face as the skin dissolves off her skull before her son's very eyes. Yup, the perfect movie for young York and Zach to much popcorn in front of.

http:/www.*youtube*.com/*watch?v=fGjQg2ELsBg

Reviews would be... valued!


	23. chapter 20: Wheels Within Wheels

In which Zach starts to develop a voice of his own, sort of.

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**CHAPTER 20: WHEELS WITHIN WHEELS**

**DAY 2  
TIME AND LOCATION: Day 2; 8:06, Great Deer Yard Hotel  
WEATHER REPORT: Clear skies, sunshine  
FORTUNE: "A warrior wears the green skin of another."**

Usually it's Zach who wakes him up; the sensation is like a cat lazily uncoiling in a patch of sunlight, up in the open attic of York's waking mind. But this morning feels different, more like a chill breeze blowing through, disturbing the dust and bringing with it the curious odor of something dark and heavy and foreign. In his dreams, York always loses his sense of smell. This time, he wakes up with it thick in his nostrils, blotting out even the smoky overtones of frying bacon wafting under his door from the hotel kitchen. He sits up on the edge of the bed, noting the sweat that has accumulated on his brow overnight.

"Zach... First a red room in a crimson forest... Now a white room surrounded by white trees. And the boy's identity has finally been revealed to us. But how does this fit into everything else we've learned? It's like we found a piece of a jigsaw puzzle that doesn't fit in with the one we're trying to solve."

Zach has no idea what it means either. Zach thinks the meaning of the red room is quite clearly related to their current case, but the appearance of the boy is crossing his lines. Perhaps it's a fragment of memory, leaking in from York's subconscious. A ghost, nothing more. York remembers the boy's grip on his arm, and shakes his head. No ghost would have that kind of strength.

"Does it matter? I don't know... It's way too early in the investigation, not to mention too early in the day, to tell if this has any sort of relevance to our work here. We've got plenty of time to think about it, though; almost twenty-four hours of pure, sightseeing fun. Greenvale, here we come! But before all that: Coffee. I'm going to need coffee…"

Zach seems oddly relieved to stop talking about the dreams, and now, diffusing in the warm light of day, the discussion doesn't seem quite so urgent. After a quick shower and shave, York is on his way to the dining room, where Polly is waiting with an apparently limitless supply of hash browns, scrambled eggs, pork and turkey sausages, bacon, ham, pancakes, fruit bowls, and too many varieties of muffin to count. Zach waits patiently for York to finish his meal; York loves to describe what he's eating as he's eating it, claiming that it enhances the experience. To Zach, it's the next best thing to having tastebuds.

"Scrambled eggs light and fluffy, cohesive without being too gluey. Just about perfect. Normally I'd be inclined to dump half a bottle of ketchup over them, but that would be like drawing a mustache on the Mona Lisa. Gastronomic vandalism. There must be something in the pepper, too… Incredible. Orange juice, freshly squeezed. Think of a waterfall of pure, liquid sunlight pouring down your gullet. And the bacon! Zach, I could go on forever about the bacon…"

He doesn't, however, and eventually it's time for the morning's coffee. York ponders over the message foaming in his mug as Polly flits around the table, clearing away dishes with the speed and agility of an ice skater.

"Hmm… Concentric circles, one within the other… Could be a dart board, or the wheels of a car. Or a certain round object, gripped in the victim's fist as she lay dying upon that table up in the mill, her only companions the darkness and pain and fear..."

Zach notes that such thoughts are liable to turn this sunny morning into a gloomy afternoon, and York has to agree. "You're right, this is no time to depress myself. We must be optimistic, and we have so much more ground to cover. But first things first- Let's go pick up our car."

York spends a good five minutes thanking Polly effusively for the fantastic meal, and this time he doesn't even have to repeat himself once. He can hear her delighted laughter behind him as he heads towards the exit leading to the parking lot. Once behind the wheel of York's borrowed police cruiser, he and Zach take a moment to chart their course. The scrap yard, George had said last night, was on the other side of town from the sheriff's department. "Keep heading up January Way, and you can't miss it; you could see that pile of garbage from space." York turns the keys in the ignition, and Zach expresses a small amount of dissatisfaction with the way the engine sounds as it grumbles to life.

"Don't be so surprised, Zach," York chuckles as he pulls onto the main road, neatly cutting around an elderly couple puttering past the hotel in an olive green Buick. "It's not like these cars were custom built to our admittedly high standards. They're just about good enough for chasing down gas station thieves and not much else. They've probably got special tires to deal with the rain, too; unless petty crime in Greenvale stops along with business when it gets wet out."

Around a bend in the road, the town's main thoroughfare opens up, man-made structures beginning to fill the spaces between tree and stone. Even with the sun out, everything seems to be perpetually coated in a fine blanket of gray mist, giving the buildings a wraith-like appearance from far away. But as York drives closer, they seem to solidify, as if only direct observance by an outsider has the power to anchor the town to a fixed location. York wonders if he stopped looking in the rearview mirror at the streets he's passed by, would they evaporate, cease to exist?

Zach doesn't believe that things disappear just because you're not looking at them. If a tree falls in a forest and nobody's around to hear it, does it still make a sound? Still, York can't help glancing in the mirror every once in a while, just to reassure himself.

They pass by the dry cleaners, a couple of convenience marts, a barbershop, a worn-down gas station. York slows down in front of a souvenir store with an oversized wooden statue of a squirrel posted outside the front doors, an acorn held between its gray-painted paws. The store doesn't look open, but then, nothing around here does. Zach quietly reminds him of what George and Emily said about the lumber mill shutting down, sending the local economy into a downslide from which it clearly never recovered. Every darkened storefront, every empty display window, is another indication of Greenvale's once-bright past, and their now overcast future.

"And I thought you were the one telling me to think happy thoughts, Zach," York murmurs, speeding up. Outside the car, nature and civilization have reached an uneasy truce. Greenvale is an isolated pocket of built-upon land surrounded on all sides by a fortress of tree and stone and water, with only the fragile cords of the main highways connecting its geography to the outside world. Without good people to maintain it, communities such as this one will collapse, rotting from the inside. From what they've seen so far, York and Zach like the citizens of Greenvale, like them very much in fact. Polly Oxford, Ushah the doctor and Fiona the receptionist, Jim Green, the Ingram twins, Olivia and apple pie, Emily and Thomas...

"In fact," York muses, now on the lookout for a sign or something that will point him the way to the junkyard, "I don't think we've met anyone so far who wasn't a decent human being in some way or another. Even the uncooperatives like Nick and George must have their fine points, buried deep down as they are. George is obviously a trusted sheriff around these parts, and seems to really care for this town even though he realizes its golden days have long since passed. And Nick, well... Nick... He has a lovely wife. Plus, his cooking is superb."

Zach points out that these facts do not necessarily preclude Nick from being the guilty party. York is reluctant to agree; they both know that York's proclivity for good food tends to be the only thing capable of blinding him to a person's motives, ulterior or otherwise.

"It's baffling, the idea that someone so gifted in the culinary arts could be capable of such wanton acts of carnage," York says, shaking his head. "The act of fine dining is a sophisticated one, a sign of culture, and yet… I suppose there is still something uncivilized about it. The need to eat, inextricably linked to our need to survive… Reminds me of that one movie, The Stuff, directed by Larry Cohen in 1985. Ice cream that takes over people's brains and turns them into zombies? What could be a more appropriate metaphor for the savagery of consumption than that? Or how about Attack of the Killer Tomatoes, 1978, yet another great movie where food comes to life and wages war against the human ra-"

Zach blurts out a warning just as York is about to overshoot the turn off into the junkyard. He hauls on the wheel, tires squealing, and manages to propel the police car diagonally through the open gates in the wire fence with barely inches to spare. He straightens out and parks with deliberate care in front of a small box-shaped building that appears to be an office of some sort, the blinds in the windows pulled closed. York gets out and slams the door, looking awestruck.

"Zach, this place is enormous! Broken down cars, spare parts, mountains of them! Why, Lysander must have been collecting scrap from the time this town was founded in order to amass such a collection of junk."

"What're you callin' junk, boy?"

York spins around, eyes darting from one pile of rusted metal to another. He sees nobody, senses nothing.

"Section B-7! Come on over if you don't like to shout; I ain't got time to chat with visitors."

"This is like that chess puzzle Dr. Ushah subjected us to yesterday," York whispers to Zach as he makes his way across the lot, stepping over displaced engines and bits of machinery that must have gone through unspeakable trauma to end up here. He follows the crude spray-painted signs until he finds himself next to a stack of beaten up, flattened cars, their empty windshields glassless and baleful. Zach points his attention upwards, and they see a hunched over figure in army greens sitting on the hood of the topmost car, glaring down at them like a king addressing his subjects from the throne.

"Who're you and whaddya want?" the man bellows, even louder now that he can see York in person, an ant in a dark suit and tie with its arm raised to block out the sun.

"I'm FBI Special Agent Francis York Morgan!" York calls, wishing he'd approached from the other side of the tower of cars where the shade currently lies. "And you must be Lysander, keeper of the junkyard!"

The man abruptly disappears from sight. York and Zach hear a small avalanche of debris as Lysander bounds down the other side of the car heap, the better to deal with this little upstart. York stands nonplussed as Lysander comes towards him and gets up close, the short-cropped iron grey hair and small beady eyes giving credence to his next words, barked out in a clipped spittle:

"That's General Lysander to you, you little punk. Now we'd better square something right here, right now, or you're going to end up on your ass back outside that fence, you hear?"

"Perfectly, General." York is staring at Lysander's chest, where the sunlight bounces off a pair of tarnished dog tags hanging around the General's neck. His breath is warm and smells like stale whiskey.

"I won't have you calling my precious treasures a pile of junk again, understand? Youngsters these days don't know the value of a good sparkplug, can't tell a piston from their own pisser. One look at you and I can see you're no different."

"Probably not. I see you were enlisted?"

The dog tags rattle as Lysander puffs up his chest. "Vietnam, 1968. I fought for my country as well as any man could, until my duty ended in '75. You weren't probably much more than a lump in your momma's belly then."

York is impressed. "A real life war hero! So what brought you to Greenvale?"

"Soldier, this is my hometown! There's no other place for a man to go after war. I took over this place from old man Jarvis, ain't nobody else who knew cars better. Speakin' of which, I just realized. You must be that agent who owned that wreck I towed up here from the mountains the other day. How d'you feel about your current ride, son?"

Without taking his eyes from York's, Lysander jerks his head in the direction of the police cruiser, obscured behind peaks and valleys of scrap. He must have been watching from his perch as York made his crazy entrance through the gate; maybe he's good enough to tell from here that it steers like a broken shopping cart.

"My ride?" York smiles as if he doesn't understand the question. "It's a piece of crap, but that's not what I came here to talk about."

Wheels within wheels, lies within lies. We just came to check up on our car, remember? York hears Zach's voice in the back of his head and says softly, "I know, but now is the perfect opportunity to do some grilling before the main roast. Why wait until the community meeting to ask this man a few pertinent questions?" To Lysander: "If you don't mind, General, I have something to ask you. Something unrelated to automobiles."

Lysander scowls, crossing his arms. In his youth, he must have been a force to be reckoned with; even now that he's taken to drinking and developing a bit of a gut in his later years, York can tell that he's lost little of his strength and none of his pride or dignity. Once a soldier, always a soldier. "Go on, then," he grumbles. "Kids these days don't even know how to ask for something properly."

"Would you happen to know anything about something called the Raincoat Killer? I hear it's a popular legend around these parts."

York steps back as the spittle starts flying once again. "Legend? You imbecile! The Raincoat Killer is no myth, no mere folklore. It's based on actual events that happened in this town, long ago."

"That's not what I've heard. Can you tell me more?"

Lysander rubs his chin with a battered hand that's seen more than its share of scrapes and engine grease. Then he says, "Tell ya what, son. Why don't you follow me and check out the progress I've been making on that ride you crashed. I fix things, s'what I do now. Not much time for thinking about the past, y'understand?"

York nods. He watches the General's broad back sway in front of him as they pick their way between two massive stacks of rust-flecked metal, irregular shadows looming over them from either side. York puts two fingers to his temple and says in a hushed voice, "Zach, I feel oddly like I'm following Moses down the middle of the Red Sea."

"Did you say something, soldier?"

"I said it's amazing, the sheer variety of the parts in here. I wouldn't know the first thing about what any of them might be used for."

"That's why you leave the fighting to the soldiers, not the citizens. Ah, here we are."

The General takes a key from his pocket and fiddles with a padlock hanging from a fenced in enclosure at the back of the yard. York enters and spots a familiar shape sitting against the far end, covered in a blue tarp. The surrounding area is scattered with tools and disassembled parts, but everything seems clean, free of rust or dirt. He walks towards it, noting amusedly the faintest urge to run percolating through his legs.

Calm down, Zach. We're only five feet away from reuniting with our fallen steed. Hopefully the damage wasn't too extensi-

His breath cuts short as Lysander throws off the tarp, revealing the twisted, blackened form beneath. Zach sends an image into his mind, that of a man going to visit a loved one in a hospital bed, every limb broken, face burned almost beyond recognition. Only the license plate is intact enough for York and Zach to identify the car as their own: YZ1DRFL.

Lysander almost looks sympathetic as he comes around the other side and leans on the hood, the crumpled metal creaking pitifully under his weight. "Yup, she took quite a beating. No way to treat a lady, soldier, especially when you're tour ain't over. What the hell did you do to her?"

York taps his chest, pacing back and forth in front of the remains of the Mustang. "I don't know how much the Sheriff was able to tell you, but suffice to say that we were somewhat unprepared for the volume of water we encountered while driving into town. There was a deer in the road, I swerved, and that's pretty much the whole story. Is it as bad as it looks?"

"Nope, this one's a real trooper. Even with all the bumps and bruises, I could tell it was a beautiful piece of machinery soon as she was brought in. Lot of hits taken to the chassis, but the ugly you're seeing is mostly external and due to the night she spent in the rain at the bottom of the gorge."

"That's good to hear. What about internal damage?"

"I've already replaced what needs replacing; still, wouldn't hurt to swap out the accessory belt, it's getting a little worn. The hose connector I can whittle from some 80 PVC, got some new crash bolts if you're interested. Porterfield not bad for the brake pads but if you want to win the war and not just the battle, you've got to have the right equipment for the territory..."

York and Lysander spend a good ten minutes talking shop, which consists of Lysander going on at great length about techniques and terminologies while York listens politely and occasionally asks for clarification on one thing or another. On another plane of discussion, of which Lysander is unaware, Zach's agitation prickles in the back of York's head.

You always did love that car, Zach. I know it's tough to see her like this, but she seems to be in good hands with the General. Remember when we first bought her? It wasn't long after we joined the Bureau, and we'd just found a place willing to customize it to our specifications. The perfect way to blow our first paycheck. We almost had to live in that car for the first few months, it was so expensive, but it was totally worth it. The first thing we promised to do with her was take her for a spin, a good old-fashioned joyride like we were still teenagers. But all we ended up doing was driving once around the block... That after leaving her in the garage for almost a week, too scared to go near her. I guess it's the same for every geeky kid who nabs a first date with a beautiful girl... We were so afraid of disappointing her. But it turned out to be true romance after all, Zach. I hope she'll be the same as she was once she's recovered...

"...And that'll run you up another $2000 or so. You got the scratch to cover those upgrades?"

"Ah... Yes, of course. It's like you said earlier: I'm here to win the war, not just the battle."

"Exactly!" Lysander's grin is wide and tobacco-stained. "You're a fast learner, soldier. Keep it up and you may go home with a few medals of your own someday. Come back to my office in a day or so; I got no other orders waiting on me, so you're friend will get all the TLC she needs."

York thanks the man and shakes hands, Lysander's grip strong and rough with time. He feels Zach's mood sink a little further as they walk back to the police cruiser, still sitting outside the main gate like a scraggly mare blithely unaware of its own inadequacies. York gets in, puts both hands on the steering wheel and leans back against the headrest, trying to think positively about the prospect of having to drive this lemon around for another day and a half while the Mustang is under repairs.

"General Lysander... 'Nam vet, now owner of the Greenvale scrap yard. Quite the character, huh, Zach? Though I noticed something a little odd about him... He claims his rank is General, but... Wasn't that a sergeant's uniform he was wearing?"

Zach thinks Lysander is hiding something, not just about the Raincoat Killer, but about his military career. Not lying about it exactly, just being evasive. Wheels within wheels, secrets within secrets, just as the coffee foretold. York takes the cruiser out of the main gate and back onto the road, heading in the direction of the hospital.

"Maybe so, but he won't tell us until he's ready. We'll have to ask him again tomorrow, see if he still feels like talking. I doubt he has any direct involvement with the murders, however; he seems to have a strong sense of justice, and he probably didn't even know who Anna Graham was before she was murdered. But we'll see. In the meantime-"

York stops and frowns, then taps one of the dashboard instruments with a finger. The needle on the gas gauge trembles, then unsticks, dropping alarmingly towards zero. York makes an exasperated sound as he slows, making sure there is no oncoming traffic for when he executes an illegal u-turn in the middle of the road. Fortunately the streets are mostly deserted, have been for a while now. He realigns and starts heading back the way he came, towards the gas station they'd spotted on their way in.

"Wonderful, Zach. Just great. Hopefully this is the only surprise of its kind that Greenvale has to offer us, or this case is going to turn into a real trial by fire."

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Reviews would be... invigorating!


	24. chapter 21: Exit Strategy

In which we witness another touching father and son moment.

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**CHAPTER 21: EXIT STRATEGY**

**TIME AND LOCATION: 10:03, SWERY65 trailer park  
WEATHER REPORT: Clear skies, sunshine  
FORTUNE: "When it comes to family, the dust never truly settles."**

Richard Dunn pulls into the lot with his head feeling like it's about to swell up and burst out of his Stetson. He's got a hangover from staying up all night with Sallie, the usual price he has to pay for keeping her calm and out of trouble. Without him, she's a sponge for alcohol, soaking it up along with all the bitter dregs of her daughter's absence, letting it seep into her bloodstream, tainting her sanity. If he's not around to pour the cheap beer she keeps buying down his own gullet, it'll go down hers, so better that he take the punishment for her. Yup, that's me, Richard thinks. The original Mr. Jesus himself. Self-sacrifice is my freakin' specialty.

Early daylight, even the pale, watered-down version of it they usually get up here in the mountains, stabs at the frail barrier of his closed eyelids. The sound of a second engine starting up causes him to open them fully, and he almost gasps out loud with the pain. He stumbles out of his car, half blind and flailing.

"Quint! Quint, where d'you think you're goin'?"

Quint runs a hand through his sandy hair as he glares at his father from behind the wheel of his blue souped-up convertible, a gift from Richard for his sixteenth birthday. It looks fast and loud and hard to handle, just like its driver.

"Maybe I should be asking where _you've_ been instead of saying where _I'm_ going, dad. What's it matter to you anyway? You know I hadda open the bar without you last night?"

Richard stands in front of his son's car to prevent him from leaving. Then he has to think of an excuse why.

"Uh... I thought I told you to clean out the storage shed. You left all your motorbike crap in there from last night and it hasn't been tidied up yet."

"What makes you think I haven't?"

"Have you?"

"No, now get outta the way!"

Richard's hangover throbs behind his eyeballs and threatens to push them out from the inside. "Don't you talk that way to your father, Quint! Now tell me where you're going or so help me God I will send that bike to Lysander's scrap heap faster'n you can say 'Bingo was his name-o'. It's not a hard question, so just answer it!"

Quint sits silent and red-faced, clutching the wheel with both hands as if he might actually be considering putting his foot down on the gas pedal. Then he slumps, looks sideways at an empty patch of dirt next the the car with shining eyes.

"I'm goin' to Becky's, is all. She said I could come over and she ain't doing too well, so I gotta hurry 'fore she changes her mind on me. Okay?"

"So whyn't you say that in the first place? Why you gotta give me such a hard time about everything?"

"Why you gotta ride me so hard then, huh?" Quint screams suddenly, pounding the wheel with a fist. "You're the one who's always actin' like I don't got the right to be doin' what I'm doin', while you get to screw around however, whenever,_ with_ whoever you please. Even when things got hot between mom and Sallie, you just let it happen, you didn't give a damn about anyone but yourself-"

"Now you better hold on-"

"Screw you!" Quint jumps the car forward, sending Richard sprawling to the ground. The blue of the convertible disappears temporarily behind a cloud of dust as Richard lies coughing in the middle of his son's impromptu smokescreen, too agonized to even curse. When the dust settles, he's still sitting there, still not saying anything, hands wrapped around his head as if to keep the world from splitting open around him.

After a few minutes, slowly, so slowly, he reaches for his fallen hat, puts it back on his head, and gets to his feet. It's this last part that takes the longest. Once inside the trailer, he collapses on his bed, dusty clothes and all, and forces himself to think of Sallie. Sallie before the murder, Sallie before he married Lisa, before Lisa had Quint, the way Sallie laughed back then, the way she used to smile... But he can't even remember her face. And then he can't remember anything anymore.

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Reviews would be... stupefying!  
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	25. chapter 22: Ben Franklin

In which York defends a lady and gains some Agent Honor.

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**CHAPTER 22: THE MAN WHO TALKED TO BEN FRANKLIN**

**TIME AND LOCATION: 10:03, Heaven and Hell Gas Station  
WEATHER REPORT: Clear skies, sunshine  
FORTUNE: "Today, you should make an attempt to grab the bull by the horns."**

"I don't got nuthin' to say to the cops."

I flash my most winningest smile, at the same time looking around at the ancient-looking gas pumps, the windows of the nearby building, darkened with grit, and the faded wooden sign announcing our presence at the Heaven and Hell Gas Station. Rather a grandiose name for such a humble establishment, though one we can both appreciate for its musical allusions. Which song do you think it's referring to, Zach? The heavy metal tune by Black Sabbath, or the song by one of your favorite bands, The Buzzcocks? Too bad we'll probably never find out from the owner; as he was so quick to inform us, he doesn't seem overly fond of the police.

"Oh, you mean my current set of wheels? That's just for show, like playing Let's Pretend. If I'm the Cop, maybe you could play the part of the Robber?"

"Shaddap!" The burly man standing outside the cruiser's rolled-up window hawks an impressive gob of saliva onto the left-hand side of the windshield, where it takes its sweet time in leaving a nice gooey trail as it slides down the glass. Good thing we didn't bring our Mustang here, Zach, or you'd have me out there knocking his teeth in before it ever left his mouth. Not very agent-like behavior, I must say, and besides, we'll catch more flies with honey. By flies, I mean a full tank of gasoline. I turn on the wipers.

"Could you at least give me your name?"

"...Jack. They call me Ragin' Bull Jack."

"That's a manly nickname. Now, Jack, you're the owner a gas station, not an economist. But surely even you have some understanding of the process of supply and demand?"

Jack's piggy little eyes narrow even further, making the extra flesh around his jowls stand out even more prominently. His beefy arms flex almost involuntarily from under his sleeveless leather jacket, but the muscles are offset by the centerpiece of his torso, a large beer belly that spills out from under his black t-shirt and over a leather belt that seems like it will no longer be adequate to contain it in about two or three years.

"Whaddya mean, supply and demand?"

"Well, Jack, you supply a service that in turn offers a certain product to potential consumers such as myself. In this case gasoline. There is a limited quantity of it, but lots of people want and need it, so there is high demand. In order to equalize the pressure of this system, an intermediary form of currency must be involved in order to facilitate a successful transaction. In this case, and most cases in fact, that middle party is money. ...Ah, I see I've finally struck a word that you are familiar with! Perhaps you can even spell it?"

Jack's eyes gleam hungrily. "Cash only, craphead. I don't talk to fuzz. Just Ben Franklin."

I dig out a few hundreds from my wallet. My hand holding the bills is barely out of the car before Jack reaches inside and snatches them up with sweaty fingers. He takes a moment to flip through them, counting under his breath. Then he frowns and looks at me.

"That's a lot of friggin' gasoline."

"Mind if I- that is, Ben Franklin- asks a few questions before you top off the tank?"

Jack spits again (this time on the ground, fortunately) and leans on the police cruiser with his back to me. His back... I wonder what secrets he could be hiding under that beat-up leather jacket... I don't have it on me for comparison, but his physique from this angle could very well match up to our tattooed unsub in that photograph. He's no stranger to the needle, either; his arms are covered in black ink.

"Well, well," he giggles to himself like a madman. "What does 'ol Ben have to say to Uncle Jack this time?"

"Ben would like to know if you have any information about the legend of the Raincoat Killer. You know, only comes out in the rain, likes the color red, that sort of thing."

"It's all bullshit. I never see nobody out when it rains, 'cept truckers from outta town, and they don't wear raincoats."

"Okay, then how about something a little more direct. What do you know about Anna Graham?"

"That blonde chick? She was hot."

"...Is that all you have to say about her?"

Jack's laugh is asinine, grating against my eardrums. "What, ya want me to talk about the size of her rack? I could do that, man, all day long. She weren't much different from all the wimmen 'round these parts though; smokin' hot, but stone cold bitches, through and through. 'Specially that one piece a tail, can't even remember her name, that deputy chick. Now there's a cop I wouldn't mind gettin' drilled by, if I got to drill her first-"

Jack grunts in surprise as I put the cruiser into reverse and haul backwards a few feet, rolling him against the car and snapping the side view mirror off his elbow in the process. The hundred dollar bills he'd been holding scatter across the lot, are blown around like leaves in the sudden breeze that seems to have kicked up for this very purpose.

"I'm sorry, my foot must've slipped."

"Why you little-"

He stops when he clambers to his feet and looks through the car window, where he comes face to face with my badge. I hold it steady as if were a gun.

"I don't think I properly introduced myself. I'm FBI Special Agent Francis York Morgan. You know, Jack..." I tuck the badge away and look up at the roof of the car, sighing deeply. "First impressions are terribly important. I could detain you for a few days, and maybe you'll become more pleasant to meet."

Jack glowers, rubbing his arm. My grin feels stuck to my face as I look at him and add brightly, "Fill 'er up?"

Fifteen minutes later, pulling into the hospital parking lot with a tank brimming with premium, and I still can't figure out whether it was your hand on the gear shift and my foot on the gas pedal, or the other way around. Not very agent-like behavior? Maybe so. But you gotta admit, Zach... That's what I call teamwork.

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Reviews would be... marvelous!


	26. chapter 23: Quint Pays A Visit

In which Quint pays a visit, just like it says on the tin.

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**CHAPTER 23: QUINT PAYS A VISIT**

**TIME AND LOCATION: 10:17, Becky's house  
WEATHER REPORT: Clear skies, sunshine  
FORTUNE: "A storm cannot be comforted, only endured."**

Quint knocks once, twice, and when there is no answer after a minute or so, he starts shouting.

"Becky, it's me, Quint! I'm at the front d-"

He almost falls off the steps as the door is flung open. A pale arm reaches out, grabs him by the collar and hauls him inside the darkened lobby. He hears the door slam behind him, then the tickle of breath hissing into his ear.

"Shh! Don't talk!"

"Becky, wha-"

He feels the slight shadow beside him grip his arm with steel-laced fingers. Stumbling slightly, he lets himself be dragged towards a sliver of gray light on the other side of the room. They pass a circular mirror on the wall to his left; he turns to look at it as they go by and catches a glimpse of himself, those pale arms still clutching him around his shoulders as if rescuing him from drowning. Soon he finds himself in the bedroom, the smell of stale clothes seeping into his nostrils. He lets himself be pushed onto the bed, mildly stunned, and hears the sounds of multiple locks being turned, one after the other.

Lying on the rumpled sheets, Quint props himself up on his elbows, watching Becky's hunched silhouette as it fumbles with the door.

"Ain't ya even gonna turn on some lights? Maybe crack a window or two?"

"No. No open windows. I've had five new locks put in; that should be enough for now."

"For now? Becky, wouldja please come over here and tell me what the hell's going on?"

Becky straightens and turns, her face washed out and unreadable in the musty darkness. She comes towards him, jerkily, and he sees that her hands are shaking.

"Quint... Oh, Quint..."

She collapses next to him on the bed, partially against him, her body like some heavy lifeless mannequin as he tries to hold her in his arms. "I'm sorry, Quint," she gasps, dark brown hair trailing messily across her eyes. "I'm sorry I can't tell you everything, but I can't leave the house. I know it looks crazy, the locks and all, but I can't take any chances. You understand, don't you?"

"Yes," he almost lies, then thinks better of it. "No! I don't understand! Baby, what's wrong? Is someone after you?" Quint's voice lowers. "Is it... Jack?"

He brushes her hair away so he can see her more clearly. Her skin is clammy against his and it seems like she hasn't showered in a few days. The whites of her eyes jump out at him, darting glances left and right, her hand on his back clenching and unclenching. Now, he thinks, would probably not be the best time to tell her about the police cruiser he passed on the way here, going in the opposite direction. In her current state, the most trivial piece of information might be enough to shatter her like a china doll.

"Jack? Who's Jack?"

"The guy who runs the gas station. Oh yeah, I guess you've never really been introduced to him... You oughta be grateful about that, too, he's a total asshole."

He can almost feel her heart rate slowing as she listens to him talk, distancing herself from the paranoia. Encouraged, he goes on: "He's the one who's been helping me out with... gettin' rid of the supply. He gets all sorts of customers from all over the country, truckers mostly, so I can charge a higher rate. It's what's going to get us out of this rut, Becky, remember? That's why I was so hard on you about the next batch... I don't need it so much anymore, but if we're gonna be together, we'll need more dough."

"Money's not an issue, Quint. You're still working at your dad's bar, and I... I get enough from my sister. I mean, look at this house. It's more than enough for the both of us."

"…I don't like it."

"What don't you like about it? We'll be together, won't we?"

"It just… It doesn't feel like I'm earning my way yet, that's all."

Becky looks up at him, dark eyes accusing. "And what we're doing now is supposed to make you feel like a decent human being? You've got to stop, Quint. I don't want you doing it any more."

"It's a little late for that, Becky. We're not the only ones involved in this now."

"You can stop any time you want, you're just making excuses! Please, Quint, do it for me…"

Quint wants to let go of her, but she's clinging to him with that desperate strength, and he can't bear to push her away.

"Who else would I be doing this for? Sallie? My dad? I'm doing this for _you_, Becky! Becky, look at me!"

Her trembling is turning into something approaching a full-blown seizure. She bucks and twists in Quint's arms, but her fingers, frozen into grasping claws on his collar and shoulder, are immovable.

"Sallie? Oh god, Sallie... Anna, I'm sorry, I'll won't tell anyone, I swear, please god please-"

Quint lets himself fall backwards on the bed, gaining more leverage with which to restrain her. He feels like a living strait jacket as she writhes against him, choking out half-formed syllables and incomprehensible apologies to people not present in the room. It's like she's a character in a movie who's been possessed by demons; but Quint is no exorcist and there isn't church around here for miles, and those are the only scenarios in which he can think of a solution for whatever supernatural terror has her in its grip.

It's also the worst timing he could possibly think of. As Becky's sobs lurch through her body and into his, the warmth of their closeness on the bed offset by the marble-like chill of her hands on his neck, he thinks of the tiny box nestled in the inner pocket of his jacket. It lies pressed between them, waiting. Quint imagines its contents growing cold, like a carton of Chinese takeout left on the counter overnight.

He turns off his mind, lets himself be emptied into the void of Becky's impenetrable anguish. Her crying becomes like the rain: A steady, unbroken deluge in the midst of this beautiful summer's day.

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_Reviews would be... wondrous!  
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	27. chapter 24: The Paradox of Beauty

In which Ushah and York philosophize briefly.

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**CHAPTER 24: THE PARADOX OF BEAUTY**

**TIME AND LOCATION: 10:52, Greenvale General Hospital  
WEATHER REPORT: Clear skies, sunshine  
FORTUNE: "Let an expert help to nip a mystery in the bud before it grows too large to handle."**

"A wig? You're sure of that?"

"Yes sir, Agent York. Those red hair samples are organic, not synthetic, but the tests revealed the chemical process that goes into manufacturing high-quality hairpieces of this sort. So there's it's highly unlikely that those strands could have come from the head of our killer."

York doesn't look as surprised as Ushah had expected upon delivering this news. Instead he taps his collar idly and frowns into the middle distance.

"Are there any places around here where such a wig could be purchased?"

"Not in Greenvale, far as I know. What would a small town like ours do with a costume shop? The closest urban center from here is Seattle, and there must be a dozen places where you could get something like that."

"Yes, but if we ask every one of those stores to check their records for anyone who purchased a red wig within the last year or so, all we need is for one single name to match up with a resident of this town to gain a lead. But that's for me and the Bureau to worry about for now. In the meantime, Ushah, can I ask you to take a look at something for me?"

Ushah shrugs. He's got no other patients to see at the moment, and having Agent York around is a welcome distraction from the online chess tournament he's currently struggling to gain rank in. Not to mention the… Fiona Situation. He turns his concentration to the small bag York is laying on the stainless steel table between them.

"What is it?"

"That's what I was hoping you could tell me."

Ushah leans over for a closer look, turning the bag around with long, graceful fingers. Inside is a rumpled flower, about the size of a daisy, severed from the bottom of the stem. Its petals are slightly wilted, but their color, a brilliant crimson, doesn't seem to have faded at all. A thick, dark fluid leaks constantly from the torn stem as if it had just been picked. Ushah looks inquisitively at York, who nods, and proceeds to open the bag. A heavy scent fills the room, almost oppressively strong despite the plant's diminutive size. He holds the edges of the bag closed again and wrinkles his nose.

"Phew. Reminds me of the time I went to India for a medical seminar. Lots of exotic spices there, large animals roaming the streets. As a result, the air was full of pungent, layered smells. Kind of like this, but... This is somehow different… It seems familiar, but I can't put my nose on it exactly."

York's mouth twitches into a slight smile. "So you can't tell me offhand what kind of plant it is? And I was counting on the famous L.A. doctor to have the name ready before I even got in the door."

"Well, there are limits to even my expertise. As they say on Star Trek: Dammit, Jim, I'm a doctor, not a botanist! But I can run a few lab tests if you like. It shouldn't take very long to come up with some results. Where did you say you found this?"

York picks up a small vial of something-or-another from a nearby rack and gazes into it as though it might hold all the answers. "I didn't say where I found it, but if it helps, there was a whole patch of them growing at the base of the tree where Anna was found. You know, down at the Forest Park."

"In that case, why not ask Jim Green about it? I'll run the tests anyways, but that man knows more about plants than John Bartram. I'm sure he'll tell you what you need to know."

"Thanks, I'll do that."

"Pardon me for asking, Agent York," Ushah says after a while, "but does this have anything to do with the case, or is this just out of curiosity? It seems odd that a delicate little flower would have anything to do with such a violent murder."

"In my line of work, beauty and brutality are just two sides of the same coin," York answers, replacing the vial and picking up the box of glass slides sitting next to it. "A beautiful red flower and a beautiful young girl can be inextricably linked in ways we cannot imagine. Zach and I have had to deal with far more incongruous cases; for example, a couple years ago there were a series of homicides in which each of the bodies were found naked, their skin painted entirely white from head to toe, all stabbed through the forehead with what was later discovered to be a railroad spike. However, the most interesting detail were the painstakingly carved spiral horns carefully inserted into each wound..."

Ushah snaps his fingers. "The Unicorn Killer! I read about it in the papers when I lived in Los Angeles. You worked on that?"

"I was brought in after the fourth murder, when he began migrating from Minnesota to Wisconsin. It wasn't so difficult to track him down after that; the killer turned out to be a homeless drifter with severe dissociative identity disorder. His second personality was an insane zoologist named Nathan Treville, who had made it his personal mission to resurrect the extinct unicorn species by lethally transforming his human victims into the mythological creatures."

"Why didn't he just glue the horns to a horse or something? Why use a person?"

York rifles through the glass slides, selects one and holds it up to the light, squinting.

"Well, you're asking the question from the perspective of a rational individual. Trying to apply the same logic to a serial killer is like trying to put a band-aid over wet skin. It just won't stick."

"Yeah, I guess I know how that is. How'd you catch him?"

"The horns were made of soapstone, the same material this drifter made his living on. He sold small carvings of wild animals, bears and geese and the like. I bought a few of them myself, right before he was apprehended. Still have them, in fact. I usually keep them lined up on the windowsill of whatever hotel I happen to be staying at. They remind me of the paradox of beauty, how it and ugliness can sometimes co-exist in the most unexpected ways."

Ushah raises an eyebrow. "Or you could sell them on eBay. I'll be they'd be worth a lot, being carved by the hands of an actual killer!"

York gives the slide one final critical look before reuniting it with its companions in the cardboard box. Then he turns the same look on the doctor.

"That's a rather morbid thought, Ushah. I'm surprised you take the idea of death so lightly."

"Uh, well... It was kind of a tasteless joke, I guess... I'm sorry if I offended. I guess you see a lot of messed up stuff on the job, huh, Agent York?"

"That I do, Ushah." York nods seriously. Then he breaks into a wide grin. "And anyway, I doubt they'd be worth much over the Internet. Soapstone statues crafted by a murderer? Can't hold a candle to some of the other stuff that's up for sale these days. Things you wouldn't believe! "

"Like what?" Ushah's curiosity is peaked.

"Like the fourth Jaws movie, 'Jaws: The Revenge', on DVD. Can you imagine? What kind of twisted soul would buy something like that?"

York shakes his head in amazement. Ushah does too, for different reasons. After a few more words regarding the upcoming community meeting, York turns to go. Then he stops, snaps his fingers.

"Oh, I almost forgot. Fiona asked me to give this to you."

He hands Ushah a sealed white envelope, unmarked. The doctor turns it over in his hands, puzzled. A whiff of lilac reaches his nostrils as his fingers brush the paper.

"What is it?"

"You asked me that before, when I showed you the bag. I let you figure it out for yourself then, and I'm going to do the same now. Besides, how would I know what Fiona put in that envelope?"

Ushah laughs. "Well, I thought maybe the FBI's top profiler might be able to read her mind for me."

"She's a woman and you're a man. No amount of mind reading can help you now."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

York answers over his shoulder as he crosses the room, heading for the door. "Sorry I've got to take off so quickly, but I've got a lunch date with Thomas over at the Sheriff's department. Call me when the results come in, Ushah. I really appreciate the help."

"S-sure... Will do..."

Ushah watches as the doors swing shut behind the agent as he exits the room, then looks down at the envelope as if it's an explosive device. Moving slowly, he picks up a short-bladed razor from a nearby tray, and proceeds, with extreme caution, to open it...

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_Reviews would be... beautiful!_


	28. chapter 25: Lawful Lunchtime

In which the story strays even further from the game, and Emily is confused by everyone.

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**CHAPTER 25: LAWFUL LUNCHTIME**

**TIME AND LOCATION: 11:43, Sheriff's Department  
WEATHER REPORT: Clear skies, sunshine  
FORTUNE: "The men in your life insist on always having the last word."**

"You've talked to his superiors, haven't you, George? They've confirmed he is who he says he is. That means he's in the clear."

"Yes, but that doesn't mean there isn't something suspicious about him. That's why he's so irritating. He goes around like he's the emperor of all creation and has the nerve to accuse us, Greenvale's law enforcement, of being possible suspects? Is that how they're taught to do it at FBI school?"

George stalks the length of the conference room, taking his hat on and off as if unsure of its proper position, only that it ought to be done as forcefully as possible to get his point across. On the other side of the table, Thomas lays out paper plates and coffee mugs while humming some dreamy pop song that sounds like it would be right at home in a smoky fifties jazz bar. Watching him work, quite untouched by the petty tensions circulating around the room, Emily feels a sort of strange admiration for his ability to let the world's troubles roll off him like water off a snow goose.

Of course, the other officers like to joke that worldly problems would have no effect on a space case like Thomas, but Emily never joins in the laughter. She can't help seeing the good in everybody; it's in her nature. Whether this will benefit her career as a cop or hinder it in the long run is something of an ongoing point of contention between her and her father, but when it comes to interpersonal relationships among the rest of the staff, Emily believes it has served her well.

As for Greenvale itself, she gets along with pretty much everyone, with few exceptions. Among those exceptions is that one incident last Christmas, when she'd been out of her uniform for a staff party at the SWERY65 and had made the stupid decision to let someone drive her home, someone whom she would otherwise have never gotten into a car with had it not been for the army of martinis laying siege to her common sense. As a result, that person, and maybe a few inconsequential old warhorses who didn't approve of a woman being on the police force, were the minority in a town that Emily could now comfortably call home without too much thought. She is no longer the outsider here; that status has been transferred to another, far more deserving candidate. Namely, a certain scar-faced individual with a city slicker's usual obtuse charm and lack of propriety concerning anything beyond the horizons of their own narrow worldview. Having grown up in an urban environment herself, Emily knows that the big city is not as big as people think.

A knock on the door. "Sheriff Woodman, Deputy Wyatt? Agent York is here."

"Send him in." George looks at the hat in his hands as if waiting for it to make up its mind, then puts it on his head and adjusts the brim with gesture of finality. Then he looks sideways at Emily and nods once. It's like some kind of secret code, the meaning of which Emily is too hungry to bother guessing at right now. She watches Thomas scamper into the kitchen to retrieve whatever his latest concoction is, and finds it remarkably easy to lose herself in the prospect of a good meal. After all, what could possibly turn Thomas' cooking into an unpleasant experience?

"...So they gather everyone into town hall for a meeting, and when the aliens show up and fire their death rays, people's heads start popping. Like, SPLAT! Really something. You know, they used balloons filled with meat sauce for that special effect-"

"Agent York!" Emily splutters, putting down her fork in disgust. Beside her at the table, Thomas is making a similar expression, paused in the act of overturning a ketchup bottle onto his French fries. George continues eating, apparently unperturbed.

York cocks his head. "Yes?" he says, poised in the act of demonstrating with his hands the gruesome implications of what happens to a human head when an alien death ray is fired into it.

"There are people trying to eat here!"

"I know, Emily. I'm one of them." York puts his hands down and picks up his half-eaten sandwich. "Anyway, how did we get on this topic again?"

"We weren't. You're the one who changed the subject. All I said was that we scheduled the townsfolk to meet at the Community Center at two tomorrow, and then you started going off on a tangent about aliens and meat sauce who knows what else."

"Yes, I wish I could remember the name of the movie. I was just reminded of it because of the similarities of the plot. A small town, gathering people under one roof, a series of menacing attacks, an extraterrestrial invasion... Well, they were similar until that last part."

"Only this isn't a film, Agent Morgan," George says over a tuna sandwich on whole wheat bread. "This is reality, as you yourself have pointed out several times. What exactly do you intend to talk to them about? It's not as if they're unaware of the murder. Anna Graham was a very popular girl, queen of the graduation prom, in fact. Everyone loved her."

"Obviously someone didn't… Or, as my current theory states, someone loved her too much." York deliberates over choosing between roast beef on kaiser or chicken on rye before continuing with his mouth full. "Ish- Excuse me. It's important that the people of Greenvale understand just what they're up against. There are a lot of safety issues that need to be addressed, and we need to make sure everyone is on the same page. And, as I said before, I would like to observe the townsfolk holistically, as a collective."

"What do you mean by… holistically?" Thomas asks tentatively. York jabs a French fry at him and Thomas winces.

"Excellent question, Thomas! What I mean to say is that Anna's murder was like a heavy rock tossed into a pond. The pond being Greenvale, of course. The resulting splash caused ripples, eddies in the calm surface of the water… But there are things below the water as well, buried deep. I'm hoping that these ripples will stir things up enough that I can start to get a clearer picture of what we're up against."

George laughs humorlessly. "You better be careful, Agent Morgan. Stirring things up too much can muddy up the pond even further."

"That's true. But it can also reveal other things, secret patterns. Such as when I stir milk into my coffee, like so-"

The others wait patiently for York to finish demonstrating with the drink in his styrofoam cup, watching him chew on a plastic swizzle stick as he stares into its depths with the intensity of a long distance runner. Then he comes slowly out of it, blinking, and suddenly downs a third of it in one gulp.

"Ahhh! Not bad at all, Thomas, though I think your strengths lie mainly in the sandwich-making department. And what a department! I would kill for another of these smoked salmon and cream cheese masterpieces."

"Did you see anything?" Emily is surprised to find herself actually curious. For the load of mumbo-jumbo that it undoubtedly was, he'd made it seem so convincing. But York only shakes his head.

"Nothing. Disappointing, but unsurprising. It seems to work best in the mornings, for some reason. Maybe it's because I'm still half-asleep, and the answers I'm looking for are hiding somewhere in the land of dreams…"

"Which is why you shouldn't be using them as deductive tools," George says. Then he quickly moves on before York can answer: "By the way, Morgan. It's a personal matter and on very short notice, but the funeral is being held at five tomorrow, after the community meeting. It was decided that, since everyone is going to be there anyway, we might as well have it then."

"You're right, it is rather short notice. When was this decided?"

"Well, we couldn't release the body until after the autopsy. But now that Ushah's completed his report, and if you're satisfied with the results, the victim's mother has agreed with the date. It was proposed fairly early on because… Well…"

George looks uncomfortable. Emily picks up the thread.

"Sallie Graham, Anna's mother, hasn't been taking the news too well. We were pressing her for a date as soon as possible, because at the rate she's going, we'd never get a straight answer. And the funeral is necessary for everyone to be able to move on, not just her. Anna had a lot of friends and, as was mentioned, was pretty popular with the whole town. If we let it slide any farther, Sallie would never have agreed to anything, and there wouldn't have been any closure."

York gives a low whistle. "And I thought small towns like this did everything slowly. I see how it is, though. What you're doing here, it's almost like a form of tough love."

Emily colors. "You make us sound so insensitive. It's part of the healing process, the funeral, and everyone's there to support Sallie. She's falling apart and this will help rally the community around her. We're not forcing her into it or anything."

"I didn't say you were."

Noticing her voice has gotten unnaturally loud in the small conference room, Emily leans back from the table and busies herself with a napkin, wiping up some spilled tomato juice from around her plate. Her face feels warm, and her shoulders are tense. She says, in more measured tones, "It's just the worst thing, to watch someone cope with their loss by themselves, and you feel so helpless about it. Like there's nothing you can do for them, not matter how badly you feel or how much you want to fix things for them."

There is a short silence, during which Emily thinks of something else to say; something she hadn't intended on bringing to the light, but which now feels like the right time to do so. It comes out so easily that it's almost alarming.

"Agent York… I think you're right about a lot of the facts surrounding Anna's case. I think we're all glad you're here helping out, and the Bureau must have known what they doing when they sent you to us. Still, I… I also think there's a lot you don't understand about Greenvale, about how people live their lives in this town. I can't blame you as you've only been here for a couple of days. But please don't comment on matters of the heart such as you're about to witness at tomorrow's funeral. Not if you've never experienced what we're going through. For Sallie's sake."

George's hat is in his hands again. Thomas' plate is empty, but he makes no move to refill it. Emily raises her head and makes eye contact with York, who, predictably, matches her stare with his own unbroken gaze. There's a smile playing on his lips, but it's of a kind she's never seen on his face before. It's barely detectable, and the emotion behind it is indefinable. Is he laughing at her? Sympathetic? Then it's gone, and she has no data to pin to it, no evidence that it ever existed. He bows his head in her direction, and the gesture, though ambiguous, feels sincere.

"I think I understand more than you know. However… What you said before, Emily, about being helpless around others who have nobody to share their pain with… It's a cogent point, and one that I tend to forget sometimes."

York toys with his smoked salmon, but doesn't take a bite. The next words that come out of his mouth are stated firmly, but with feeling, and Emily thinks this must be the closest he's ever come to an apology, even though he doesn't exactly stick the landing.

"You know, it's good to be reminded that some people really do grieve alone. If someone is suffering, we must aid them in any way we can. Emily, you're quite right to question my understanding on that particular issue… Though as for everything else, I stand by my original line of inquiry."

It's only until after York leaves, and George is complaining as usual about the agent's increasingly bizarre methods (though he is slowly coming around to the idea that there may be a speck of effectiveness to them), that Emily realizes just how baffling those final words were. Standing in the hallway, stomach pleasantly full, she replays them in her head:

_It's good to be reminded that some people really do grieve alone._

She thinks about it a little harder.

_York sometimes forgets that people grieve alone?_

No matter which way she turns it, it doesn't make sense to her. In fact, the more she dissects the other things he's said in the last 24 hours, the less sense everything starts to make. It's as if wherever York goes, something gets stuck to his shoe and starts to become unraveled, even while he's putting the pieces together. That's the impression she's been getting, anyway, manifested in the headache blooming in the back of her skull. But maybe everyone from the FBI is like that: Their ways are mysterious only to mere mortals such as herself and George, but from their elevated standpoint, they can see the bigger picture and thus act accordingly. She can only hope that the picture is not so big that even a Special Agent could get lost in it, or they'll all be in deep water…

George leans next to her on the wall, rubbing his dark temples with his large rough hands. Emily smiles sideways at him.

"You too, boss?"

He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. "He just gets under my skin, that's all. Maybe being at the funeral will soften him up, make him easier to deal with."

"I'm surprised you invited him."

"It's part of the investigation for him to be there. It would be unprofessional to block him out. Besides, I'm sure even Morgan will refrain from rude commentary in front of the widow Graham, or I will personally throttle him like a chicken."

Emily looks at George's large, rough-hewn hands, and teeters on the edge of entertaining the idea. Certainly she believes it's possible; between the two men, there is no question of who would come out on top in a fist fight, or any test of physical skill for that matter. George is the ultimate power jock, has been ever since high school; York, while not exactly in bad shape, looks more like he was a survivor of the puberty wars than a fighter. She slaps at George's burly shoulder in a playful sort of way, like she does on the rare occasions they go out drinking together. "Just don't damage his brain; it's the only part we need to help us with this case."

He chuckles darkly. "Don't tempt me. I don't know my own strength."

Emily smiles and leans her head back against the wall. Staring up at the overhead fluorescent lights, she murmurs, "Don't get me wrong, George, but it seems to me like you're starting to warm up to the guy. Or at least, you've got a little more faith in his conclusions." She feels him stir beside her, then a slight grunt as he pushes himself off the wall. When she turns her head, the next thing she sees is him opening the door to his office, a frown line re-inserting itself on his brow. He stops and his moustache quirks once, but doesn't go anywhere after that.

"Faith's got nothing to do with it, Emily."

Then he shuts the door behind him, and she is left once again with more mysterious parting words, like puzzle cubes in each hand that she has no idea how to solve.

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_Reviews would be... eerily prescient!_


	29. chapter 26: The Kids Are Alright

In which York tries to teach the kids of today the way of true punk.

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**CHAPTER 26: THE KIDS ARE ALRIGHT**

**TIME AND LOCATION: 1:12, on the road  
WEATHER REPORT: Clear skies, sunshine  
FORTUNE: "Today you may find yourself educating students outside the classroom."**

This is a little embarrassing, but I completely forgot to ask the Sheriff and Deputy Emily about Raging Bull Jack. The mention of the funeral threw me off track for a moment- it's an unexpected development, but we'll have to roll with the punches. And there may be advantages to it being sprung on us like this. Probably not even the townsfolk were prepared, and that will make questioning them easier. Though, as Emily said, we must tread more carefully than we normally would... We don't want to be the guy at the party whom everyone is waiting for to leave, or they won't start the music until we're gone. And that wouldn't be useful to us at all.

Speaking of music, Zach...

_When we were young the future was so bright  
The old neighborhood was so alive  
And every kid on the whole damn street  
Was gonna make it big and not be beat_

You hear that? Where's it coming from?

I stop the car for a moment, listening. The sky overhead is like a perfect blue bowl of soup, with white clouds like dollops of cream swirled on top. Any moment the soup might start spilling out, and we'll all be flooded... But it's such a beautiful day out that I don't think people will mind too much, as long as it's not rain pouring down.

In fact, the only strange thing about this picaresque scene are the tortured chords shattering what would otherwise be a peaceful silence interrupted only by the occasional dog bark or birdsong. Instead, drums and guitar thrum questioningly, yet forcefully, below a voice that hovers on the hoarse edge between singing and screaming without melody. Is it bringing you back too, Zach, or what? But where...

_Now the neighborhood's cracked and torn  
The kids are grown up but their lives are worn  
How can one little street  
Swallow so many lives?_

I step out onto the sidewalk, looking up and down the empty street for the source of the noise. Not so empty, it turns out; look, down there, behind the wire fence surrounding what appear to be the local high school. A whole pack of teenagers, just hanging out in the basketball court, not even playing ball, just sitting around blasting their music for nobody to hear. It's summertime and yet they can't keep away from the building... If I was them, I'd be off as far from the school as I could get. Did you have something you wanted to ask them, Zach? All right, then, what harm could it do. It's not like we're pressed for time, and today feels like the kind of day where taking it slowly might be a good idea. After all, that's what Harry Stewart told us, and who are we to question the wealthiest man in Greenvale?

_Chances thrown, nothing's free  
Longing for, used to be  
Still it's hard, hard to see  
Fragile lives, shattered dreams_

The teens glance warily up at us as we approach. Their expressions get even more serious when one of them not-so-subtly points out the police cruiser parked behind me down the road, and they start shooting each other glances that would have been an indication of incriminating guilt had this been an actual interrogation session. I almost have to stifle a laugh; teenagers are terrible at keeping secrets, but only the kind that don't matter, like who's dating who, and whether so-and-so really covered the principal's entire car in plastic wrap (all right, you and I managed to hide that fact when we were called into Mr. Parnell's office for questioning, but think I would have spilled the beans if you hadn't been there to stop me). Yet when it comes to matters of life or death, like the one Anna was in, not even their parents or closest friends would have any idea that something was amiss. The more dire the situation, the heavier it is and the faster it sinks to the bottom. But that goes for just about anyone, I suppose, not just teenagers.

_Jamie had a chance, well she really did  
Instead she dropped out and had a couple of kids  
Mark still lives at home cause he's got no job  
He just plays guitar, smokes a lot of pot_

I wander up to the fence and stand outside it, watching them as they sit in their little circle around the boom box whose speakers continue to pound out the beats of the song. They try to ignore me, but finally one of them reaches out and turns the volume down. At least, he pantomimes doing so; the churning guitar chords don't seem to have diminished after he takes his hand away from the knob.

"Hey. Is there something you want?" He stares at me through a curtain of long brown hair, the sort of hairstyle dad was always complaining about. His cheeks are splotchy with acne.

"I was just curious about the music you were playing here, that's all. Mind telling me what it is?"

They look at each other again. There are five of them, three boys and two girls, all around the age of sixteen or seventeen. Going into their final year, I'd say. The worst year is behind them, in my opinion; at least this means it'll all be over soon.

_Jay committed suicide  
Brandon OD'd and died  
What the hell is going on?  
Cruelest dream, reality_

"Uh... It's the Offspring. 'The Kids Aren't Alright'. It's punk." He says this like he isn't quite sure himself what it is. I raise an eyebrow.

"The music's not bad, but those lyrics are a little pessimistic, don't you think? Is life here in Greenvale really that depressing?"

One of the girls smirks. "Isn't that what punk is supposed to be?" she asks, running her fingers through short hair dyed an unnatural shade of turquoise. If her head was any brighter, she'd be going to Harvard by now. "Not necessarily," I correct her, raising a finger. "Have you ever heard of this song, 'If the Kids are United', by Sham 69? It's pure punk rock, but it still manages to convey an upbeat message to the generation of today's youth. It goes something like, _'If the kids are united... Then we'll never be divided... Understand him, he'll understand you... For you are him, and he is you._' Sound familiar?"

Head shakes all around. The short-haired girl shrugs, apathetically.

"Are you out of your minds? How can you claim to know punk if you don't know that song?" I throw up my hands in disbelief. "Their last album was only released a year ago, so there's no excuse."

I know, Zach, their best stuff was way before that. And of course, not all of those songs are a rallying cry for acceptance like the one I've just mentioned- these teens here would probably be more into "Leave Me Alone" or "Who Gives A Damn", judging by this... Offspring... that they're listening to nowadays. But still, you have to make modern references if you want to make a connection with modern young people. Otherwise they'll just look at you like you're speaking Spanish or something, which incidentally was one of our worst subjects.

If only I hadn't crashed the car... I could have given them one of the mix tapes I keep in the glove compartment. Sure, that boom box of theirs probably only plays CDs or even just digital files, but we had such a great collection saved up. Probably all smashed to pieces by now. Good thing the soul of punk is immortal, or the loss of those tapes would have been devastating.

_Chances thrown, nothing's free  
Longing for, used to be  
Still it's hard, hard to see  
Fragile lives, shattered dreams_

The chorus wails one final time from the speakers as the teens think about what I've told them. One of them pulls a black Sharpie from his pocket and tugs off the cap, them places the tip of the marker on the back of his hand. Then he looks up at me and says, "What was that band again?"

I repeat the name, as well as a few others at your eager request. The Clash, X, The Buzzcocks, Television... His hand is starting to look like someone spilled ink all over it by the time we're done. His friends are laughing at him, but they seem less disturbed by our presence. One of them says I look like Dexter Holland from the music video for the song they were just listening to, but neither you nor I have any idea what that means. One of them speaks directly to me.

"Hey... Are you that FBI guy everyone's been talking about? The one with the... you know..." The questioner, a pretty young blonde with a stud in her nose, makes a slicing motion with her hand across the left side of her face.

"I don't know what this-" I mimic the gesture- "is referring to, but yes. I'm FBI Special Agent Francis York Morgan. Call me York, though. That's what everyone calls me."

"You're kidding me, right?"

"What's there to kid about?"

The boy with the curly red hair starts to laugh, then stops. He looks a little uncomfortable. "Well, you know. What's with the scar and all?"

"Oh, that. It's from a previous assignment I was working on. I'd tell you youngsters all about it if I wasn't bound to secrecy, under pain of death."

Of course, I _was_ kidding that time, Zach. Although Bob Abrahams probably wouldn't appreciate the humor. The girls look more excited than the boys, who don't seem to have gotten the joke. "Really? That's so cool!" the blue-haired one exclaims, standing up and coming closer to the fence dividing us. "Are you in town because of what happened to Anna? You're working on her case, is that it?"

"Julie!" The third boy, whose favorite colors are apparently black and more black, hisses at her. I smile to put them at ease, but it only seems to make him more agitated. "Come on, stop bugging him. If he's on Anna's case, maybe you shouldn't ask questions."

"It's quite all right. I've decided to take the long approach on this one. Now that I'm here, though, what can you guys tell me about Anna? She went to this school, right?"

The black-clothed boy exhales sharply and looks away. The other two, plus the blonde still sitting on the ground, deliberate for a moment before the redhead answers.

"Well, she graduated last year, so we didn't know her all that much. As a person, I mean. Of course we knew _of_ her. Everybody did."

"Why didn't you know her better? Was there a reason?"

"Her being a senior and all, not to mention that she kind of belonged with the super popular crowd. You know the type I'm talking about, right?"

I feel your twinge of unpleasant memory and decide to be level. "You mean the beautiful chickens at the top of the pecking order? Don't tell me Anna was one of those..."

The long-haired boy laughs. "Actually, for someone like her, she was really nice to everyone. She was only so tight with the popular kids because... I mean... The way she looked and stuff, she could have gotten anything she wanted. She was way too cool for us, and she was always the first to get invited to parties or whatever, but she didn't really hang out with anyone specifically. She just kind of drifted from group to group, so everyone got to know her at least a little bit."

Julie of the Blue Hair crosses her arms, unconsciously pinching the loose skin on her elbows. "Yeah, she kind of spread herself around. That was kind of weird."

"I see. So no cliques to speak of. Did she have any friends?" I ask.

"Dunno. Maybe."

"What about that one girl? They were in the same year, right?"

"Who, the one with the ponytail?"

"No, not her..."

I interrupt. "Was she seeing anyone?"

They all stop and look at me, then the ground, then each other, as if waiting for the rest of the question. Julie's fingers are turning the skin on her arms white. I'm afraid she's hurting herself, but she doesn't seem to notice. I seem to recall having a low pain threshold at that age too, Zach... It helps when you're getting a bloody nose from some jerk who's much bigger than you, to not be able to feel the pain right away... But pain is necessary, too. How else are you supposed to know when you've been hurt?

Julie takes another hesitant step closer to me, eyes darting from side to side. As if to stop her, the boy in dark clothes stands up. But he makes no further move, and after a pause, Julie starts whispering through the fence.

"Okay, I didn't want to bring this up because it might just be a rumor or something and I don't like people who gossip and have no idea what they're talking about. But this is scary shit that's going down and we want the killer to be caught just as much as anyone, so maybe this will help you catch him. Or her."

Her friends are all standing now, clustered closer together, eyes haunted. I curl my fingers through the fence and gaze past them at the school building beyond, its windows like dark empty eyes. "Don't worry, I'm not bound to say who gave me the information," I murmur. "Whatever you tell me will be completely anonymous. I will, of course, have to share it with the police."

"Julie-" the dark-clothed boy starts.

"Shut up, Chris! This isn't about you!" To me: "I don't care about that. Say whatever you want to them. Like I said, it could be just a stupid rumor."

"I understand. Please continue."

"So, Anna... Apparently the high school dating scene wasn't enough for her, I guess. What I heard was, she was seeing someone after school... Someone a lot older. Like past university age. I mean getting into squicky territory here."

"And where did you hear this?"

"Around. You pick up things when you're outcasts like us." She smiles and sticks out her tongue. There's a little silver ring piercing the end of it, and then it disappears back behind her bright purple lips. "I only started hearing about it near the end of the school year though, so I don't know how long it was going on for."

The boy with the long brown hair slouches up next to Julie, ignoring Chris' sigh of disapproval. "Um... Yeah, some guy was talking about it in the locker room about a month before she died. Something about how she was going around calling herself Little Red Riding Hood and she'd finally found her Wolf, or something."

"Yeah, I remember that now," the second boy says. "She was always making comments about the fact that I have red hair, so I could be part of this secret club she was a part of. I always just laughed, never asked her about it. Probably just an in-joke."

The blonde pipes up next. "I heard the same thing! It was at some party and she was kind of drunk, so nobody was taking her very seriously. She said something strange like, 'It's okay, it's okay, my Big Bad Wolf has a red hood, just like me. He can't eat me because we look the same, so it's totally safe'. It didn't make a whole lot of sense, to be brutally honest."

"Was there anyone suspicious there who might have heard her saying these things?"

The blonde shakes her head vigorously. "Nah. It was just some stupid pre-grad get-together. The music was really loud and she was kind of mumbling, so I think I might have been one of the only people who caught it. She fell and I was trying to hold her up, soooo..."

There's another awkward pause. Without looking with their eyes, everyone's attention is focused on Chris. The last testimony, yet to be offered. With his gangly stature and rebellious clothes that suggest a strong familiarity with social rejection, he could have been me eighteen years ago, his first reaction when confronted with authority to turn up the volume against any possible interrogation. But the boom box is silent, as are his friends, and he realizes that some kinds of peer pressure are more reasonable than others. He shuffles his feet, hands in his pockets, and mumbles, "I don't got much to tell. Just... You know, in the story, what Little Red Riding Hood was taking to her grandma?"

"Goodies, treats. In a basket, as I recall."

"That's right. A basket." He nods, eyes wide. A cloud seems to pass over the school, casting shade upon our little group as we huddle around the fence. It seems to pause there, as if monitoring us. Then it passes by and the sun shines down once more, but Chris's next words seem to linger like a cold damp wind frozen in midair. Six simple words, strung together in the simplest of sentences. So why do they send such a chill over me, when the phrase itself could hardly be any more innocuous?

"A basket of goodies for grandma," is all he says. Then we're alone, looking in at a deserted basketball court, no musical accompaniment but the rhythmic slither of red vines climbing the wire fence...

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_Reviews would be... aces!_


	30. chapter 27: Dark Pupils

In which we witness the most terrifying English class in the American educational system.

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**CHAPTER 27: DARK PUPILS **

**TIME AND LOCATION: ?  
WEATHER REPORT: ?  
FORTUNE: "You may find yourself returning to a place you hoped never to revisit again."**

York doodles stickmen on the lid of his desk with a pencil as the teacher drones on, the scratching of chalk on the blackboard drifting in and out of his sphere of consciousness. The dim fluorescent lighting overhead produces a soporific buzzing that further dulls his concentration. Even Zach, normally far more alert than he when it comes to their studies, isn't paying attention; instead, he's drowsily repeating over and over the words to some dirty limerick they'd heard one of the seniors reciting in the bathroom during lunch break. York can't help but grin, and as soon as he does so, he feels something small and hard strike him in the side of the head.

Zach goes quiet. York looks down and sees half of a grimy pink eraser fall to the floor, bouncing slightly before coming to rest in the aisle. Slowly, he raises his eyes to meet those of the perpetrator, small and piggish, set in a face flushed with a deep-seated, indescribable rage. The sort of directionless animosity that only a teenager could understand, that only another teenager could provoke.

The boy, whose name escapes York, hisses at him. "What're you smiling about, _dickweed_?"

York looks away, back to the front of the classroom. He sits very still, even when he feels the other half of the eraser hit the side of his arm like a tiny meteor strike. His hands feel very cold.

"C'mon, _Francis_, smile for the camera. Whatsamatter? Is the joke not funny any more?"

Zach wants to turn his head to look at the boy again, but York won't let him. Zach gets more upset at this sort of thing than York does. It's because Zach feels guilty for letting York take all the heat, while he remains safe and sound in the warm darkness of York's mental backroom. York doesn't mind, though; he always tells Zach that as long as they're together, he can handle anything. "There's strength in numbers, just like on Captain Planet. The power is ours!" York had once crowed deliriously, watching television on the couch with a high fever. Zach remembers looking at the screen through York's eyes, colorful cartoon characters performing amazing feats to summon their hero at the last minute, and feeling secretly glad that there is only the two of them. York and Zach.

Zach and York.

Two is the perfect number. Two is all they need...

"...and that is why it is not recommended to end your sentences with a preposition." The teacher continues to write on the board as she talks. The piggish boy raises his hand, and York stiffens.

"...Ma'am?"

"Yes, what is it?"

"Sorry ma'am, Francis is throwing his erasers at me. He's makin' it real hard to concentrate on the lesson."

The teacher doesn't even turn around. Still facing the blackboard, hand raised with the chalk held against it, she says in a loud, flat voice: "Francis? Is this true?"

The other students turn their heads in unison, a sea of faces with York at its epicenter. In the washed-out light, they all look strangely identical: Boy and girl, black skinned and white, blonde and brunette, all reduced to the same sickly shade of pale gray. Their eyes are like sesame seeds floating in saucers of curdled milk. One of them is grinning with sharp little teeth.

York looks down. "Don't call me Francis," he mumbles, rubbing out one of the penciled stickmen with his thumb. "There's only one person who gets to call me that, and it isn't _you_." It suddenly strikes him that he does not remember the teacher's name, nor the names of any of the students in the classroom.

"In that case, Mr. Morgan, I suggest you let everyone know what you'd like to be called. Because what I have written down in the roll call is _Morgan, Francis_. Is that not your name, or am I missing something?"

It's York's fingers pressing tightly against the pencil, and Zach's eyes glaring heatedly as they say with one voice, "It's _York_. Francis. York. Morgan."

"More like Francis _Dork_ Morgan," the chubby boy says loudly, and a wave of tittering laughter sweeps over the classroom, closing inwards on the focus of their derision. York hunches his shoulders as if in self-defense, and Zach feels like a cowardly soldier hiding in the barracks while his fellow squad members outside are being cut down in a hail of gunfire. The pencil in York's fingers finally snaps, splintering into two halves. The sound is like a gunshot, and the laughter stops abruptly. Unnatural, like flicking off a light switch.

Suddenly both York and Zach realize the teacher hasn't yet turned around throughout this entire ordeal, has not even moved from her position at the board... And as for all their hated classmates... What was that black shape wriggling at the corner of that girl's mouth? Where have the whites in that boy's eyes gone, and why is the room suddenly so much darker than before?

York gets unsteadily out of his seat, feeling their stares on his body like the tiny red dots of laser sights. The voice of the teacher crackles like harsh static.

"Mr. Morgan! Sit down!"

"What if I don't want to?" York whispers. His voice sounds very small.

"Detention! Suspension! EXPU-U-U-ULSION!"

This last word comes out deep and slightly mangled, as if the teacher is pushing a half-digested ferret up from the back of her throat. She still hasn't moved, and neither have the students. The pig-like boy's mouth is frozen in a black O, like a deep cavern in which something is stirring awake...

Zach's courage is like warm wings pressing against York's back. "I'm just going to the bathroom, that's all," he says softly. His voice is stronger this time. "It's not a crime, is it, going to the bathroom?"

A series of clicks emits from the front of the room as the teacher finally steps away from the blackboard, her hand dropping by her side as if dead. The lights flicker redly. The eyes of the students are like bullet wounds, and there's a smell like burnt cinnamon at the bottom of a compost heap.

"I-i-if yoooouuu leeeeave..." she gargles, elongating each syllable. Without warning, her head snaps back, and York and Zach catch a glimpse of her bloody upside-down smile held like an umbrella over the rest of her face, her features streaked with tar. Then she jerks upright and continues in that increasingly garbled tone, "_Dooon't maaake meee... Haaave to caaall your MOOOTTHHHHEERRRR-R-R-R..._"

Something bright white and jagged pops in front of York's eyes as he screams, "Go ahead and try!" before jumping on top of Pig Boy's desk on his way to the door. He feels hands slipping around his ankle, and something else like a thick coiling snake snatching at his collar, but he's moving too fast for them. In no time he's skidding on the hallway tiles outside the classroom, ignoring the screams and wails coming from behind. Zach points him like a needle on a compass towards the end of the hall and York covers the distance with wings on his heels, noting with hyper-aware senses the dim flickering redness of the lights, mottled walls pulsating like the innards of some great carnivorous beast as he runs past.

Red ivy covers the pictogram over the door, the featureless male figure signifying "Boy's Bathroom" looking strangled and helpless. York slams it open anyway, crimson tendrils lashing at his face as he stumbles into the cool damp whiteness on the other side.

He'd never thought they'd ever be in a situation where comparing an oasis to a public high school bathroom would be considered apt, but "oasis" is the first word that comes to Zach's mind as York crouches below a row of sinks, watching the door to see if anything might be trying to follow them through. All is stillness and quiet, and the heavy burnt smell of the classroom has been replaced with the faintly distasteful sterility of recently cleaned porcelain. Zach spots a mop in the corner and York jams it through the door handle as a safeguard, then he returns to his original position, letting his nerves recharge.

Only when the low moaning starts up again, and red vines start winding their way through the crack at the bottom of the door, do York and Zach remember what two years of being trapped in this building should have taught them by now: That free period recess never lasts forever, and when the bell rings a second time, you must once again face the daily torment that is adolescent life. But by this time, after a protracted discussion with Zach, York knows what to do. Standing slowly, not wanting to attract his presence to the vines, he moves backwards to the last sink in the row. Above the sink is a mirror, and it is into this that York now finds himself gazing.

His reflection seems to waver like water in a pond as he scrutinizes it. He sees a boy of about fifteen years old, with sharp features and a physical build on the skinny side of just-about-average. He's dressed in black from his jacket to his oversized boots, silver studs glinting on his belt, worn jeans ripped and slashed at the knees. His hand goes up to finger the unruly fringe of dark hair falling across his face; when had he ever let it get this long? He lets it fall back, and his other eye peers huntedly out at him, inside it a bewildered boy unsure of who he is or how to escape.

As if catching on to his moment of uncertainty, he hears Pig Boy and the Teacher outside the door, calling out to him in those tortured voices. Something is slamming against the door from the other side as their moaning escalates in volume.

"_Where... aaaare... yoooouuu..._"

"_Fraaaancissssss... Moooorgaaan..."_

_ "Time t-t-t-t-o teach yooouu... a lessssooooon..."_

The mop handle shudders as the pounding force behind it intensifies. York blinks once, twice, and his reflection seems to skitter and pop out of focus, as if it's a TV channel being changed. If Zach had a mouth of his own to grin with, it would be showing up in the mirror now...

That's right, York. Just like when we used to watch TV together.

_The power is ours!_

And with a jolt, York is staring back at a grown man in a dark suit and tie, hair cut short, the faintest traces of an old scar healing over his brow, a gun filling his right hand as if it had always been there. Only the color of the eyes remain constant: Green, just green, no other pigmentation to describe it.

Just as there it no other name to describe himself, except...

"_Cooomme oooutt Fraaannnciiiiiss... Expuuulsioooon... Expuuu-"_

The red ivy slithers away from York's feet as he walks four paces to the door and wrenches out the mop handle with his left hand. He has to jump back as the door slams open, revealing the writhing pale limbs of the Teacher and her pack of ink-eyed minions, struggling to fit through the doorway all at once. Their numbers only make it easier for York to take them out, one bullet for each skull, although the Teacher takes the longest to drop. The bodies stack only momentarily as the purple mist rises to cover their fading remains, like the smoke of an unholy funeral pyre.

The Pig Boy's voice mingles with that of the Teacher's as they disintegrate with excruciating slowness into the white and blue tiled floor.

"_Yoouuu'll paaayyy fooor thiiis... Frraaanciiisss..."_

_ "Waaiitt till yoour mooother heeaars whhaat yoou've dooo-"_

"She can't hear anything because she's dead," York says coldly, and puts the last of his ammo right between Teacher's gaping non-eyes. A hideous sound like the screeching of claws against a blackboard ruptures the air, and then everything, the mist, the smell, the moaning, the red vines, all gone, sucked back into the abyss. York and Zach are alone in the bathroom.

There is a pause as normalcy reinstates itself. Then, the shockingly mundane sound of footsteps echoing in the corridor outside.._._

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_Reviews would be... inconceivable!_


	31. chapter 28: Grandma's Basket

Good news, everyone! **My Deadly Premonition fansite, Planet Redwood, is officially launched!**

(Remove *s)  
**http:/*planetredwood*.webs*.com/**

It's still under construction and a lot of the information still needs organizing, but there should be enough content to keep you occupied for a little while. If you're reading this, I'm assuming you've finished the game, so you can pretty much go anywhere (including the spoilerific Red Room). Amazing!

Also: Boy this chapter is pretty long.

* * *

**CHAPTER 28: GRANDMA'S BASKET**

**TIME AND LOCATION: 16:47, Greenvale high school  
WEATHER REPORT: Slightly overcast  
FORTUNE: "Hundreds of metal doors will present a challenge."**

My ears pop as I venture out into the darkened hall, you having reminded me at the last minute to holster my empty pistol. No sign of red anywhere, save the stripes on that miniature flag drooping unpatriotically from a pole set above one of the closed classroom doors. Other than that, nothing but the muted palettes of your typical American educational institution. Coming down the hall towards us is an elderly man in stained coveralls, white eyebrows arched in surprise as he takes in what must be for him an interesting sight: An FBI agent in a slightly rumpled, funky-smelling suit sneaking out of the boy's bathroom.

"Hoy, you! Howdjoo you get in here?" he says in a gruff, indeterminately European accent. "I thought I locked all them doors."

"I'm sorry, you must have missed one. I do have the security clearance to be here, though." I pull out my badge, show it to him. He puts his face up so close to it that I half expect him to start sniffing at it like a dog. "FBI Special Agent Francis York Morgan. You must be the janitor? I thought school was long out already."

The old man shrugs, apparently unimpressed. "They asks me t'clean out them lockers. Some police work being done around here, I can't do it 'till they leave. That girl who got herself killed, she jus' graduated, maybe they thought she left somethin' behind. I don't know nuthin' else about it."

"So you haven't cleaned them out yet."

"Eh? Cleaned what out?"

"The lockers."

I gesture around me at the banks of slim metal doors lining the walls. He shakes his grizzled head. "Nah nah, not yet. I still got to clean the floors and all. I forgot my mop in there-" He points to the bathroom we'd just emerged from- "and I was jus' headin' back for it when you pop outta nowhere." He looks up at me, curiosity giving way to suspicion once more. "How'd you get in here again?" he asks, plunging a finger into his ear and twisting as if unsure of whether I'd already told him. I'm not sure how to answer that question myself as the circumstances of our being here are quite fantastic to say the least, and describing them would only lead to this old guy having a heart attack or kicking us off the premises.

...What's that, Zach? ...Okay, I'll ask him, but it seems like a bit of a long shot. I trust you on this, though.

"Say, ah... You wouldn't happen to know anything about..."

"Say what? Speak up!"

"...Do you know anything about 'a basket of goodies for grandma'? It's... very important."

To my amazement, the janitor doesn't get confused, doesn't ask me to repeat myself. Instead he pops his finger out of his ear and says without hesitation, "Sure thing. You wanna me to show you? It's right down this way..."

He beckons me to follow him and starts off down the hall. Incredible, Zach! Truly, the Force is strong with us today.

"You know what grandma's basket is?" I ask, trotting along beside him and wishing he would walk faster.

"Ya, sure thing. We almost there. ...Aha!"

He stops in front of another row of lockers, indistinguishable from those we'd just left. Then he points, and there, scratched in block letters into the blue paint over the door of locker 4011, are six simple words:

A BASKET OF GOODIES FOR GRANDMA

The janitor wheezes laughter as I lean in for a closer look, my face perhaps betraying the astonishment I feel. "What I tell you, huh?" he chuckles, leaning on the wall next to the vandalized locker. "Grandma's basket, for sure!"

I put my hand on the metal handle where the lock would normally go. "Mind if I take a look inside?"

Shrug. "Sure thing, but like I tell you, the police already went through everything. What you hope to find?"

"I don't know yet, but I'm about to find out." With that I open the locker... Empty. Why wouldn't it be? Even the sloppiest inspection wouldn't have much trouble cataloguing such a small confined space... And yet...

"The police couldn't have looked through every single locker," I mumble. "Not with the same amount of efficiency as they probably did Anna's, and that turned up nothing... So just maybe..."

I shine my penlight into the locker's metallic depths, into all eight corners, sticking my head and right shoulder inside at an awkward angle to make sure I've covered everything. Then, just when I'm about to pull out, there it is.

A small dusting of red powder, down in the lower-right crack where the bottom sheet of metal doesn't quite fit evenly against the side partition. Without some kind of light source, it's almost impossible to detect; even with my light shining on it, one could easily mistake it for a few crumbs of dirt or a bit of rust.

It's always in the last place you look, Zach.

"Who is this Zach? My name is Barney," the janitor is saying petulantly, but we don't have time to deal with curious onlookers. I ask him if he's got a piece of paper I can borrow and he says sure thing, we're in a school, they don't got nuthin' _but_ paper. Still, he has to trot off to the storage closet to retrieve it, and you and I spend the next few minutes in a furious exchange of ideas that somehow ends up with me conceding to your theory that the movie Zardoz was actually _supposed_ to be as ridiculous as it was. I still can't erase the image of Sean Connery in a wedding dress from my mind, but when you put it that way, I guess nobody could have intended for that scene to be taken seriously. All right, Zach, you've won this round... But I still think Deliverance is the superior Boorman film.

What any of this has to do with Grandma's Basket is beyond me, except maybe for the fact that Connery wears a red-colored speedo for most of Zardoz, but thankfully that memory is interrupted as Barney returns with a rumpled sheet of foolscap. He watches with a sort of questioning disapproval as I carefully crease and tear the paper into two halves, then fold one of the halves into a crude rectangular pocket. With the penlight held steady between my teeth, I use the other half of the paper to sweep the tiny particles into my makeshift envelope. I fold it a few more times and tuck it away for safekeeping.

"There, that should be just enough for Ushah to work with. You know, Barney, it's incredible what they can do in a laboratory these days. Have you ever seen CSI?"

Barney looks taken aback at the question, more for the abruptness of it than the content, I suppose. "Er... I dunno... Did you find a clue or what?"

"Me neither," I say cheerfully, even as I'm heading towards the exit. "I don't watch all that much television. Not unless it's animated. Did you ever watch the Flintstones, Barney?"

"Uh, I dun-"

"Thanks for your help."

I step out into an afternoon touched slightly with grey, as if the sky is like the hair of a man who is just starting to show his age. The basketball court is empty, the kids and their blaring boom box long gone. For how long had we been inside the school? I feel your chill going down my spine, Zach... I don't want to think about it either, but dancing around the issue isn't going to do us much good in the long run. That was no physical threat we were facing back there, it was an assault on our psyche using pure memory as ammunition- and whoever was orchestrating it was working behind the scenes, invisible. Perhaps our friend in the red raincoat? But it's not raining outside...

Your awareness rotates inside my head, points me in a direction. I hear the basis of your theory with my ears before I see it: The insistent _sh-sh-sh-sh ssshhhhhh_ of sprinklers on the grassy areas surrounding the school building. Barney must have activated them before coming inside and finding us there...

I see what you're getting at, the conclusion that must be drawn. But what does it mean, Zach? We know the parameters of our Mr. Urban Legend, the killer who only comes out during the rain, and there seems to be a correlation so far with his appearance and the recent weather we've been experiencing. It was raining when we almost hit him and crashed the car, it was raining when he chased us through the hospital and the lumber mill, and now that it's a clear day, of course he wouldn't show up... But "They" did. "They" came to the party without him.

...Keep talking, Zach, I'm listening. I just want to get this little package over to Ushah's before he goes home. Let me just get back on the main road... Right. Where were we? Ah yes.

Rain. As with fire, like all things natural, it remains a mystical concept no matter how much we try to dissect it with scientific fact. After all, the word "rain" merely describes a process, that of droplets of water falling from the sky... Rain is not really a noun, it's a verb, acting on collections of molecules each made up of two parts hydrogen and one part oxygen. Even a fifth grader could tell you that much, but how does that apply to murderous English teachers whose face looks like a rotten fruit sliced through the middle? ...You were just getting to that part? Well, then I wish I hadn't made such a graphic description just then.

Okay. So what you're saying is that it's not some mystical property of the concept of rain as some kind of divine retribution falling from Heaven, but something more basic, existing on a chemical level. Water, in other words. Good old H2O. Nothing more complicated than the stuff we use to rinse with after brushing our teeth. But put it in contact with the little town of Greenvale, and bulls-eye! Just add water and you've got a serial killer on your hands!

...I think we're onto something here, but let's go back to what we can grasp concretely. People who commit homicide aren't like Sea-Monkeys or Chia pets; they don't spring into being at the first sign of a shower. There's something else we're missing... Some crucial part of the puzzle...

Hey Zach. Speaking of Sea-Monkeys, remember when we were kids and sent out for our own Sea-Monkey kit with the coupons from that magazine? What a disappointment. They didn't look anything like in the ads, and when you put them in the tank, they were the most boring creatures on earth. In fact, the only interesting thing about them was how they seemed to come to life before your eyes, having started out as just a packet of dry powder stuffed in our mailbox. I do have to give the Sea-Monkeys credit for that; being able to exist for up to two years as nothing more than practically dust, only to come to life at the first sign of water...

Zach.

Powder. Water.

Zach, say that again.

The Sea-Monkeys lay dormant... They don't just appear out of thin air, they simply exist in a state of suspended animation until the conditions for their survival are right. Until then, they wait, and they keep waiting... They have all the time in the world, in fact they may not even realize what they're waiting for...

You were right yet again, Zach. I almost forgot the most fundamental rule of profiling: Never let common sense get in the way of accepting and understanding the irrational nonsense that goes through the mind of a serial killer about to strike. He may very well be like a Sea-Monkey, if rain is his psychological excuse for going on another rampage... But the implications of this are dire indeed. A Sea-Monkey in its dormant form is harmless, inactive. Easily overlooked. Which means it could be anyone, Zach... The murderer could be right around the corner, even as we spea-

I slam on the brakes, stopping the car just a few inches shy of running over the small figure dressed in white dottering across the middle of the road. I check the mirrors to make sure nobody else is coming, then I get out of the car.

"Excuse me, miss?" I call, certain that the figure is a woman. My guess is confirmed when she turns at the sound of my voice, not exactly blindly, but bobbing her white-haired head in a manner that suggests some of the lights upstairs may need replacing. "It's dangerous to be standing out here in the middle of the road like this! You could get run over!"

She says something I can't hear right away, something about being hot? Her voice is high and piercing, to the point where it's difficult to understand what she's saying. I hear the sound of approaching vehicles and spring into action, grabbing her gently around the shoulders and coaxing her into the passenger seat of the cruiser. Hopefully nobody is watching; it must look awfully weird to witness a man in a dark suit hustling a little old lady into a police car, but it's preferable to watching men in white uniforms hustling a sheet-covered stretcher into the back of an ambulance. Perhaps she got loose from the hospital? I'm careful not to step on her bare right foot; one of her shoes is missing. She also seems to be carrying something between her hands, but I'm unable to get a good look before I hear a screeching sound as someone pulls up short behind the stationary cruiser.

I look over the hood; a sporty blue convertible rumbles indignantly before backing up and pulling around us, smooth as water flowing around a rock. A brief flash of the driver before he disappears round the bend: Young male, either a senior or just graduated, sandy hair poking out from under a beige cowboy hat. I catch you thinking about how much we could show this punk a thing or two about driving if only we had the Mustang, but for now, we've got to get this clunker out of the way before the old adage about good deeds never going unpunished comes true. I get behind the wheel and we accelerate in the direction of the blue car.

"My pot! It's getting cold!" The sound of the old woman's voice rings like a cracked bell inside the car. I glance at her out of the corner of my eye; indeed, it is a cooking pot she's holding in her mittened hands, the lid obscuring whatever contents might be inside. She's got to be around the same age as the owner of the hotel, but where Polly's eyes and manner of speech prove that her mind is still sharp as a whip, this woman suggests the hyper-alertness of another plane of reality, like a cat reacting to things mere humans cannot even guess the existence of. She glares at me with eyes like chips of blue ice.

"Why are you driving so slowly?" she demands. "My pot is getting cold!"

"I'm very sorry to hear that, but maybe you should introduce yourself first, just to set my mind at ease. What should I call you?"

She makes a long, drawn-out sound of exasperation. If we were to look up "exasperation" in the dictionary, Zach, they would have to find some way of putting her voice in book-form, because there is no better demonstration of the word. "Sigourney, I'm Sigourney, you fool!" she cries. "Now will you step on it? It's losing more and more of its warmth!"

My foot is pressing down on the accelerator before I realize I have no idea where I'm supposed to be taking her. I tell her this, and she becomes surprisingly calm and lucid for all of ten seconds, just enough time to tell me the directions to her house over by the lake. Then she goes back to panicking. I'm actually starting to get a little afraid myself; what could possibly be in that pot that she's so intent on preserving? I keep wanting to look at it more closely, but you're right, I really ought to concentrate on the road. Still, the image of it, so mundane and yet somehow mysterious, pulls at me with a strange magnetism.

It's not too long a drive as it turns out, and Sigourney's constant stream of cajoling shuts off like a kitchen faucet as soon as we turn into her driveway. Incredible! Who would have thought that an elderly lady who takes it upon herself to wander in front of incoming traffic could own such a massive estate? Is everyone in Greenvale who's over fifty years old a millionaire? We stand gawking up at her house, surrounded by miraculously well-trimmed hedges, until Sigourney speaks again. Again, I'm amazed; not only is her voice completely different, but her eyes have melted into calm, serene pools of warm benevolence. It's like she slipped into a phone booth and came out a different person when we were distracted. Even the pot looks friendlier now.

"Oh, thank you so much," she coos. "We made it just in time... My pot won't go cold now, because of your help."

"You're welcome. Do you mind if I ask a personal question?"

"Yes?"

I point. "What's in there that's so valuable? Do you mind if I take a look?"

Her eyes remain calm, but her tone is stern as she replies, "Now now, young man, it won't do for you to be so hasty. You know what they say: 'A stew tastes better the longer it's cooked'. Wait a little longer... Then you'll see!"

"Funny that you would say that. Harry Stewart said the same thing to me just yesterday. Something about a rat winning a race..."

Her eyes narrow at the mention of Harry's name, her lips souring, until she's gone back to being the Sigourney who was yelling at me in the car to drive faster. "That's not the right expression at all!" she cries. "Whoever heard of a rat stew tasting good at _all_? Ooooh! Now you've done it! Why did you have to keep blabbing on? My pot will get cold!"

And with that, she turns and rushes into her oversized house, slamming the door behind her somehow even though both of her hands are tightly clutched around the pot handles. I feel your confusion too, Zach, as well as your burning curiosity, but that's two old rich people already who've told us to hold our horses. I think we should continue to stay the course too, although it'll be hard to go any slower than we already are. Taking the advice from wealthy, eccentric octogenarians notwithstanding, I think we should follow up on these leads with the good doctor.

We must still be in a bit of a fog from our harrowing experience at the school, because my knuckles are starting to ache after absently knocking on Ushah's office door repeatedly, not noticing how long I'd been at it until Fiona comes around to ask me what's going on.

"Oh, hullo, Fiona. I'm just here to see Doctor Johnson, that's all."

"Twice in one day? It must be serious!"

"Is he in or am I going to have to solve another chess riddle?"

"No, he should be there. I'm about to leave for the day myself, but Ushah always stays later in the evenings. He's such a hard worker!" Her tone gets lower, the confidential hush-hush of a schoolgirl. "Did you deliver my message?" she whispers.  
"You mean the envelope? Of course I did. It made my suit stink of lilacs."

She laughs, relieved. "Oh, thank you so much! I really appreciate it. Here, let me buzz him on the intercom. I'm only supposed to use it for emergencies, but this is an emergency, right Mr. Agent?"

She's a quick one, this Fiona. If that envelope contained what I think it does, Ushah is in for the romantic ride of his life.

Fiona leaves me in front of the office door as she goes to the front desk. I wait a few minutes, no answer. Just as I'm about to tell Fiona it didn't work, he must have gone home, the door opens a crack. Ushah peers out at me, blinking rapidly. Behind him, the lights in his office are dark.

"Agent York? What a surprise to see you here, ah, already. Is something the matter?"

He's breathing a little hard and talking a little too fast. We don't need a lie detector to tell us that he's hiding something. "Sorry to catch you on your way out, Ushah. You must have just been turning off the lights to go home."

He peers back over his shoulder as if he hadn't noticed he'd been working in the dark this whole time. "N-no no, it's fine. I've just been... Eating potato chips."

"...With the lights off?"

"It makes the chips taste better."

I think about it for a second, then shrug. Every man has his hobbies. "Well, if you're not too busy, I'm afraid I have something else to add to your workload. It's not strictly related to the case as far as I can tell, but I have a feeling it might be important. Can you take it on?"

"Sure! Absolutely! Anything for the Bureau." His voice and mannerisms are starting to go back to their normal relaxed state, until I bring up the red flower, which causes him to get all jittery on me again.

"Oh, that... You know, it's only been about five hours since you dropped it off. I haven't had a lot of time to look at it, let alone have it forensically analyzed, so, uh, yes, that reminds me, I'm not sure if the sample you brought me is big enough to do a rigorous enough test, so I was wondering if it would be possible to-"

"Not big enough?" That worries me a little. If the flower wasn't enough of a sample, how will he do anything with the little paper twist of red powder in my suit pocket? I pull it out and his eyes flicker directly to it like a magnet.

"Is that what you wanted me to see? What is it?" I show him, and his eyes widen. "Red powder... Can I see?"

I watch him carefully as he peers down into the makeshift envelope, squinting. I ask him if he thinks it's enough, and he says yes just a little too quickly, further heightening our suspicions. I don't like to see him acting this way; he seemed like such a natural, good-humored guy when we met him earlier today. What could have caused this sudden change in him? I decide to perform a little test to bring him back to the way he was.

"By the way, Ushah, did you open that envelope I gave you?"

He looks up at me distractedly, adjusting his glasses. "What?"

"The envelope that smelled like perfume."

"Oh yes, that... Of course I opened it." He waves his arm in the general direction of the desk, on which I assume would lie Fiona's opened letter had there been light enough to see. "What did you think of it?" I ask. Meaning, what did you want me to tell her? His answer is not what I expect.

"Well," he sighs, reverting once again back to his old self as if made of malleable putty, "I'm a little confused by it, to tell you the truth. I might need some help cracking a case of my own. How about it? I help you with your mystery, and you help me with mine. Deal?"

I look at him. "Murder isn't exactly comparable with romance, you know. It's a bit of an uneven trade..."  
"Did I make another inappropriate comment again? I'm sorry..."

"No need to apologize. I just meant that at least murder has a chance of being solved. Anyway, I'd love to help you out, Ushah, but I'm beat. I've got to get back to the hotel before I faint away on the floor."

"I gotcha. Still, the hospital would be the right place for that to happen!" he chortles. What an odd joke for a doctor to make. And he stole it from me! Perhaps Fiona repeated it to him after she found me in the closet yesterday. I leave him with the powder along with a vague promise to get him more of the red flowers, and head out to the parking lot. I wasn't lying about my fatigue, either... I'm not sure I even have the energy to drive the car. If only we were still young, like those kids with their boom box, or that hotshot driver of the blue convertible... Even Sigourney probably feels more sprightly than I do now.

Even though my body is running on empty, my mind can't stop spinning its gears. I find myself wondering, Zach, what all these people get up to behind closed doors, what their secret lives are, how they behave when we're not looking... Just like the town, shrouded in mist, do they fade back into their normal routines when they take their leave of us? If we were to, say, peer into their windows without their knowing, what secrets would we uncover?

Zach... A scientific query. Using Greenvale as our study sample, what color is the human condition? Will it be the color of purity, white as the driven snow? Or will we peel back the veneer to uncover the rust-red stains of damnation?

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_Reviews would be... KILL THE TABERNACLE!_


	32. chapter 29: Lovers in a Dangerous Time

In which Quint makes a proposal.

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**CHAPTER 29: LOVERS IN A DANGEROUS TIME**

**TIME AND LOCATION: 19:25, Becky's house  
WEATHER REPORT: Cloudy, chance of overnight showers  
FORTUNE: "**_**When you're lovers in a dangerous time/Sometimes you're made to feel as if your love's a crime/But nothing worth having comes without some kind of fight/Got to kick at the darkness 'til it bleeds daylight**_** -Bruce Cockburn"**

Quint sits on the edge of the bed and watches Becky down the stabilizers, little green pills to stop the trembling inside. Her face is a rigid white mask. He hopes he can see his reassuring smile in the darkness of her curtained room, because smiling is the last thing he feels like doing right now. He picks up her right hand and squeezes it.

"I'm sorry it took me so long. The Milk Barn was closed and I had to drive all the way to the gas station. Jack gave me a real hard time, but they did carry stabilizers, so-"

"Sshh... No talking. I just want to be here with you."

"That's cool," Quint whispers, not sure if he should be relieved or worried. They sit in the dark, musty silence, the premonition of withheld rain giving everything a pre-dampened smell. Quint thinks about the police cruiser again, almost lets go of Becky's hand for fear that his anxiety will somehow transfer into her through contact with his skin. This is the second time he's run into it, as if their fates are destined to cross- an idea that fills him with dread. Maybe Becky was right about Grandma's Basket... It was a dangerous game they were playing, and the only thing Quint could credit himself for was never taking any of the stuff himself, just dealing it. And then only so he and Becky could have a future together. Now, though, every since Anna's death, his plans seem to be getting further and further away from him...

He starts involuntarily as Becky's voice comes faintly at him through the gloom. The question she asks comes out of nowhere, does little to set his mind at ease.

Quint... Do you believe in a God?"

He feels his jaw clench, but his answer is honest.

"I don't know."

"Because I think... No, I know... there's a Devil."

He sits closer and puts his arms around her, not sure if he's doing it more to comfort her, or himself. He feels her thin fingers digging into his back as he says, "You're not going to Hell, if that's what you're worried about."

"How do you know?"

"I just know."

Her breath rasps in his ear. "That's where you're wrong, Quint. Because I'm already in Hell."

This time he loses his patience. He grips her upper arms and pushes her back, holds her there. Her head flops forward and back like a rag doll's, and she gives him a withered smile from behind disheveled hair. He feels the words veer out uncontrollably: "Just shut up! Quit talkin' like that and get a hold of yourself! What do you want me to do? You want me to stop? I'll stop! There, are ya happy now?"

Her one visible eye, the other hidden in shadow, seems to expand and consume him. Her voice, so scarily hollow before, now wavers on the edge of tears.

"Quint... I... I've done some bad, bad things. Terrible things. Can you... Will you forgive me? When you find out?"

"What d'ya mean, when? Becky, if you're in trouble, you gotta tell me now. I'll help you through it. We promised to get through everything this, remember?"

Her head jerks from side to side. "N-no, I can't tell you. Not yet. But... Make me another promise. Say that, whatever happens... no matter what... you won't think of me burning for eternity, up in flames, down below. Maybe if you pray hard enough... I'll be forgiven for what we've done..."

"Now you're just talking nonsense again. But if it'll make you feel better..." Quint sighs, wondering if he's going to regret this. He puts his hand over his chest and says solemnly, feeling like a fool, "I promise you, Becky Ames, that no matter what happens, I'll stand by you. And if it comes down to it, I will personally ascend to Heaven and tell God that you have my best recommendation. He'll surely listen to me, of course. I'll say I'm his biggest fan. Saint Quint, that's me..."

To his surprise, his weak half-joke seems to be more effective in calming her down than the pills. She relaxes, pushes her hair out of her face... Still, some of her paranoia remains.

"Forget it. You say that now, but how can I hold you to such a ridiculous promise when you don't know what it is I've done?"

Quint realizes that he's come to a crossroads, and that the decision he's been sitting on for the last twelve hours has finally come to a head. He reaches into his jacket and removes the small, velvet-covered object from his pocket. He feels an unaccountably huge burden lift from him as he does so. He takes Becky's cold hand and closes it over the box.

"Proof, Becky. Proof that I have absolute faith that you and I deserve to be together, and that I will love you completely forever, no matter what it is you think you did. And whether if there's a Heaven or a Hell, you'll always have me. Nothing is gonna separate us, not God, not the Devil, not nuthin'."

Becky's trembling is so bad as she struggles to manage the fine motor skills necessary to open the tiny container that Quint's afraid she might fly apart before she gets a chance to see what's inside. But then it pops open, and it seems to Quint that if there's any light in the room at all, it's somehow all focused on the thing Becky now lifts from the box, glittering gold in its bed of darkness.

"But, Quint... This is..."

"Yeah."

"It's a ring."

"Yup."

"It's beautiful."

Her voice, while not exactly dull, doesn't quite hold the reaction he was hoping for. She sniffles in the ensuing silence, and he suddenly notices the tear tracks running down her face. He leans towards her.

"Becky? What's wrong?"

"It's... I don't know what to say."

"Well, say yes! Yes, Becky!"

"I can't."

There is such a note of finality in her tone that Quint feels his heart might shatter. He makes no attempt to hide the disappointment crushing his chest, taking his hand off her arm and slumping back with his head down like a sick dog. He can't even bring himself to say anything that might acknowledge that this is it, it's over, after everything he's worked towards... But then she speaks, and her words are like some angelic being dressed in white, hovering before him in a world filled with shadows.

"But I love you, Quint. I'll love you always. Even if I can't accept this right now... Whatever happens next... I have faith in you."

He looks up at her, and her face really does seem filled with light somehow, as if opening the box has transformed her, made all her fears go away. She's pinned him with that radiant look, holds him so transfixed it's all he can do to break the spell with his own voice, needing something else, just one more thing, to hold onto.

"Then... Keep it with you for now, all right? Just for me. Just so I know you believe me."

She nods. "I can do that."

And then it's her lips on his, her arms around his neck, the ring held somewhere behind his head as she presses herself against him. Even in his need for her, pulling him deeper, he can't help but feel there's an exchange going on, some kind of balance resolving itself in ways invisible to him... And though he cannot know that this is the last night he will ever see Becky alive, even if he could have somehow realized it from the doomed resignation in her eyes as she opened that box... Even knowing her death will be upon her soon, he could not have kissed her more tenderly, nor held her more fiercely in his embrace.

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Don't forget to check out Planet Redwood for more Deadly Premonition stuff!

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http:/*planetredwood.*webs.*com/


	33. chapter 30: Community Center

In which York meets someone, and then a bunch more people. Harry creeps everyone out.

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**CHAPTER 30: HER NAME IS BECKY**

**DAY 3  
TIME AND LOCATION: ?  
WEATHER REPORT: ?  
FORTUNE: "You will meet a girl whom you have never met before. She has the Mark of the Beast upon her forehead."**

_I stare into the crackling void of the television screen. It spits white light, is painful to look at. I turn away, following the invisible pattern of red leaves as they drift upon currents I cannot feel. The forest is breathing all around me, dense with unseen energies._

_ My friend the stuffed deer head beckons me forward with a flick of its ears. Leaves swirl around its antlers. There is a hunting rifle lying below it on the mantelpiece that I've never noticed before. I take a step towards it, then hesitate when I see the twins, still dressed in angelic garb, rocking back and forth in their seats as they scrutinize me with unblinking eyes._

_ "Are you thirsty?" the one glowing green asks._

_ "You must be very thirsty," the other says, radiating blue light._

_ I open my mouth, but Isaach- or is it Isaiah?- interrupts. _

_ "You only take milk with your coffee, don't you?"_

_ His brother echoes back, "Milk with coffee, that's all."_

_ They laugh, a harsh, foreign sound. I see a metal door on the other side of the twins, suspended in the ground. It stands, shut tight in its frame, waiting for me to enter. My heart pulls achingly towards it; I want to go through, I must go through, but the twins won't let me. They sit between me and the door like guard dogs, their little white teeth shining as they continue to laugh, the sound growing louder, buzzing in my ears like a swarm of static flies-_

_ Suddenly, the laughter shuts off. The twins freeze, mouths still smiling, but their eyes move in unison towards something over my left shoulder. I turn around, the flies sticking in my throat, my chest. A woman stands there, a girl really, dressed in a waitress' uniform. Blonde hair streams down over her shoulders like sunlight, and her nametag reads: ANNA._

_ I try to meet her eyes, but she only stares over my shoulder with a blank expression on her smooth, pale face. She's holding a coffee mug in one hand and a silver pitcher in the other. As I watch, she lifts the pitcher and tips it downwards, her movements as grotesquely smooth as a robot's. A thin stream of white, creamy milk pours into the mug, twisting slightly. She holds that pose, and the milk continues to flow, seemingly endlessly. I half expect the mug to start overflowing, and I want to protest, always having been particular about the exact ratio of milk to coffee; but when she finally offers it to me, I can tell at a glance that it's been perfectly proportioned by some unknown means. The whiteness of the milk swirls upon the rich dark brown of the coffee, in perfect balance. Like yin and yang._

_ "When your throat is quenched, you must do what you must do..." the green angel says._

_ "Take a sip of coffee... and go," the blue one instructs._

_ I take the mug from Anna and lift to my lips, noticing peripherally the A&G Diner logo printed on the side. I can feel the steaming hot liquid trickling down my throat. At first I taste nothing; then some indescribable feeling starts to rise within me from the depths of my gut, an exquisite burning, a scalding sweet bitterness on my tongue. Through the pain, I hear the metallic click of the door opening, and as soon as the sound reaches my ears, the fire goes out as if doused by a bucket of cold water. I look around and see that someone is coming through the door, shadows pouring from the open frame and swirling around slim ankles..._

_ "Who are you?" I ask. My voice comes out raspy, no doubt due to the fiery elixir I'd poured over it. The figure doesn't answer, but walks over to stand beside Anna. It's a teenaged girl, wearing a blue hooded sweatshirt and tight jeans. She's about the same age as Anna, too, but more slender, frail, almost. Her looks are not quite as striking, her mouse-brown hair dull compared to Anna's sunlit locks... But she has a quiet reserve about her that the dead girl had probably never possessed, but was perhaps drawn to, her wildness seeking calm. And somehow, I know instantly, that this girl and Anna were once close friends in the world of the living._

_ "Who are you?" I repeat, and she clasps her hands behind her back and rocks on her heels, staring into whatever abyss Anna is currently observing. "My name is Becky," she says softly, continuing to rock. "My name is Becky."_

_ "What are you doing here, Becky?"_

_ She sways to a halt, and a loose strand of her hair falls over her left eye. The other eye narrows at me, and the emptiness of her expression slowly fills with a coy expression, the way milk fills a coffee mug._

_ "Do you think I'm pretty?" she says, head cocked to one side. "Do you think I'm prettier than Anna?"_

_ Anna says nothing, is frozen with the pitcher in one hand, her other arm hanging down by her pristine white apron. But I get the sense they're both waiting for an answer. I want to lie, or at least smooth over the truth a little, but I find it's impossible with the twin angels still here. They sit to my right, watching attentively with bright eyes. I look directly at Becky, open my mouth to tell her the truth._

_ "No. I don't think you are."_

_ Now she's frozen too, that slightly skewed look of half-seduction still on her face. Wanting it to go away, I add, "But that's just my personal opinion. I know there's someone out there that thinks you're the most beautiful girl in the world. And he loves you, very much."_

_ And again, I know it's the truth. The same way I knew Becky and Anna were friends. Becky blinks, and what little emotion that had been there before drains out, leaving her a blank canvas once more. She and Anna swivel stiffly like dolls pretending to be soldiers and march together towards the open door. The twins' heads don't turn to follow them, but remain facing in my direction. I can feel the eyes of the deer head on me as well, and I shift discomfited under their gaze._

_ The girls exit the room, and the door clicks shut behind them. Suddenly I have the overwhelming feeling that something terrible is about to happen. I drop the mug onto the leaf-covered ground, where it cracks in two. But inside there is nothing except a bulbous cocoon, looking as if it's filled with blood. It contracts and expands rhythmically before bursting open, red liquid spattering everywhere. A huge, crimson butterfly comes out and flutters twice around my head before finally settling on one of the deer head's antlers, where it sits, gently opening and closing its wings, indistinguishable in color from the leaves still falling all around me. My feeling of wrongness fades, only to be replaced by irreplaceable loss... But not my loss. Someone else's, secondhand..._

_ "You're too late. She already left," the blue angel says, and makes an exaggeratedly sad face, child-like mouth downturned. The green one lifts his hand, and the butterfly flutters over to it as if summoned. He looks at me and says, "She's on the other side, now... You can chase her, if you wish."_

_ "But you will never catch her."_

_ "She is a fast runner."_

_ "Yes, she can outrun almost anyone... Except the Wolf."_

_ "You were a fast runner once," they say at the same time, and laugh. "He tells us that it was your best sport in high school. Isn't that right? Why don't you show us?"_

_ And I do. I run as fast as I can out of that place, leaves brushing against my face and _sh-shhing_ around my legs until I'm through the door. As I push my way into familiar inky blackness, I think I hear something snuffling around, searching for me... I hear a low growl in the dark as it catches my scent, the smell of wet fur filling my nostrils, yellow eyes glaring, the flash of teeth or steel and then_

a low murmuring and the clank of metal chairs being moved around as people take their seats. I sit onstage between George and Emily, looking out over the assembling crowd. Behind us and to the right, Thomas sits in back, taking notes in his little squirrel pad. There's a white board set up here too, already filled with marker scribbles and diagrams that probably nobody on the floor has any idea how to decipher. I don't think they'll need to, though. Everyone, especially the people of a small community like this one, understands murder... It's the details that may confuse them, but then, that's what people like us are here to take of.

As we wait for everyone to get themselves organized, though, I find my mind drifting into nostalgia. Zach, we haven't been onstage like this since elementary school! You remember those school plays Mrs. Fenster was always making us kids put on. I'm not some willow blowing in the wind this time, either... Though, that was a tough role, if I do say so myself. I was a piece of scenery. A bright red tree...

"Thank you all-" George starts, and everyone winces as the microphone lets out an ear-piercing squeal. Emily goes to adjust it and I almost get a mouthful of her hair as she leans across me, smelling of nothing but the shampoo she must have used during her morning shower. Probably a generic, affordable brand. It seems like that would suit her more than one of those fancy spa products with stuff like cucumbers and aloe vera in them. Who'd want to wash their hair with vegetables, anyway? As for the lack of perfume, I guess it would be unprofessional of her to use it while on the job... All the better, I suppose. If you recall the last woman we dated, Zach, she had on enough floral scent to stun a skunk.

"Ahem. Thank you all for coming," George repeats, Emily having tamed the mike into submission. "To get right down to business, Agent Morgan from the Federal Bureau of Investigation is here to speak with you."

I take out my badge and hold it open towards the crowd. I see a few familiar faces- Ushah Johnson, Polly Oxford, Jim Green the groundskeeper- but mostly they're all new to us. My voice rings out loud and clear without the help of the mike.

"Good afternoon. I'm Special Agent Francis York Morgan," I say, replacing the badge. "Some of you are already aware by now of the tragic murder of Anna Graham. A terrible, heinous crime, committed one rainy night while most of you were probably still asleep in your beds..."

Emily stirs uncomfortably beside me. I go on, "Unfortunately, it cannot be overstressed when I say that safety is of the utmost importance in situations like this. Until the perpetrator is caught, it can be assumed he is still alive and dangerous, and that means all precautions must be taken to ensure that this incident does not repeat itself.

"I am here in Greenvale to apprehend the one responsible for this as soon as possible. However, I am also here to make sure that everyone in this town knows what we're dealing with, and what measures can be taken to minimize the risks of further casualties. There will be time for questions afterwards, before the funeral."

There is a deliberate pause as I let their minds absorb these mundane yet vital preliminaries. A female voice in the front row is quietly sobbing; it looks like Olivia, the diner owner. Her husband Nick puts a comforting arm around her shaking shoulders. Elsewhere, the people are silent, waiting. I continue.

"First of all, be sure to stay away from dark, isolated places with low traffic. If you are eighteen or younger, especially women, never travel alone..."

I go on from there, rattling off points that would bore any assemblage of commoners such as this if not for the kind of atmosphere that is always given dire context by death. But when I come to my final topic, that of our friend in the red hood, the undercurrent of electricity running invisibly through the room jumps a few notches, sending the hairs on the back of my neck prickling.

"Now, I've heard of this folklore of the Raincoat Killer-" Zap. There it goes. I hear George's sudden intake of breath, the sudden outburst of barely disguised murmuring, and push past it.

"I feel obligated to mention that there is a strong possibility that the murderer is mimicking the story. If so, there is also a chance that he or she is from around this area, in which case it's even more vitally important that everyone keep their suspicions to themselves unless reporting it to a figure of higher authority such as me or any of the local law enforcement with whom I will be working. Your top priority should be keeping yourself and your loved ones safe, and we will handle the rest. I would hate to see any further fatalities occur as a result of-"

There's a slight stir at the back of the room, heads turning all at once as the double doors opposite the stage creak open. The first thing to step through is a long, slender leg clad in tight black jeans, and upon the foot, a bright red stiletto heel shoe. Then the rest of the body follows like a surprise encore. Stunning, Zach. Black leather jacket, red tank top, hair the color of a glowering copper sunrise. A rather severe face, beautiful in a hard sort of way. Who is she? She doesn't look at all like she belongs here...

As the mystery woman takes a seat in the back row, leaning back and crossing her legs as though she's the only human being in the room, I turn my head slightly towards Emily and whisper out of the corner of my mouth.

"Who's the fashionably late one?"

Emily whispers back, "That's Carol. Thomas' sister. She runs one of the local bars."

I raise my eyebrows. Thomas' sister, eh? I suppress the urge to glance over my shoulder at our young deputy, certain that all I'll see is the apologetic look on his reddened face, embarrassed yet again by his sibling's forward behavior. Well, I'm sure they make quite a pair. Good things come in twos, right Zach? I clear my throat and turn back to the crowd.

"Excuse me. As I was saying, if the killer is mimicking the legend, this means that rainy nights will be the most dangerous time of all to go outside. I know you folks are already used to staying indoors, but current conditions require the redoubling of all efforts to keep an eye out for anything or anyone suspicious. Report any such sightings to the police at once."

Almost as if present in the room, there is a loud clap of thunder from outside. Apparently, for once, the weather channel seems to be 100% accurate with its miserable forecast of constant, steady downpours continuing from late last night into today. I suppose we can only be thankful that everyone will be gathered in one place for most of the evening, even if united in grief; it will severely minimize the probability of further fatalities, at least for a little while. At any rate, it's time for me to finish my little speech. We only have a few hours before the service, and I want to take the opportunity to get to know some of the potential suspects...

"I would just like to make the point clear: The killer _will_ be will be caught and brought to justice. But you must all remain on guard until we do so. That is all."

I had intended for those words to signal the end of my monologue and the beginning of the question-and-answer period, but it appears someone didn't get the memo. For who should come rolling down the aisle but old rich Harry Stewart and his child-scaring skull-like visage, his young aide with the dark eyes and white suit close behind.

Whispers follow them as they approach the stage. Michael Tillotson stops Stewart's wheelchair, then turns it to face the audience. You and I try to gauge the emotion of the crowd, but it's difficult to discern; there doesn't seem to be either love or hate in the air, only the typical avid curiosity of the common towards the incomprehensibly rich. To my left, George exudes a mild annoyance, but his is the only negative response we are able to detect. Well, Zach, I say let the old man speak. What words of wisdom have you for us today, Mr. Stewart? More pithy metaphors?

Sure enough, we see the man in the chair beckoning Michael closer, whispering something in his ear. The aide pauses with head cocked; then he straightens and begins to deliver Mr. Stewart's grave pronouncement:

"_To cover our sins, sacrifice must be made__  
For the life of one girl, what dark debts have been paid?  
__If purple is royalty, than Hell is the crown  
And demons shall rule from the throne of this town._

So says Mr. Stewart."

Michael finishes in his usual fashion, and without another word or gesture, he takes up the handles of Harry's wheelchair and the two of them head up the aisle with the air of Greek gods ascending back into Olympus. Thomas' pen is scribbling furiously; he must be jotting down every single word. I glance at George, mutter under my breath, "Sure knows how to steal thunder." Again, the weather seems to dramatically underscore my words with a distant rumble that I can almost feel through my feet.

"Yeah," is all George says, dark eyes narrow and watchful as they follow the wheelchair out of the room. Below, the townsfolk stir as one, as if coming out of a collective bad dream. There are no further questions.

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	34. chapter 31: Fear of a Rainy Day

In which a funeral is attended. It's fun and games for the whole family!

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**CHAPTER 31: FEAR OF A RAINY DAY**

**TIME AND LOCATION: 3:49, Greenvale Cemetery  
WEATHER REPORT: Heavy showers throughout the day  
FORTUNE: "Secrets disappear into the ground like rainwater. A body is laid to rest, but many more spirits are restless."**

They huddle under tents of black cloth, men and women, young and old, rich and poor. Children clutch at their mothers' cold wet hands, and husbands offer scant comfort to their wives, having precious little left of it to spare from what they have already kept for themselves. But the storm allows no distinction between those who truly weep, and those whose false tears remain hidden behind the sheets of water pouring from the dark clouds above... For the rain falls upon the innocent and the guilty alike, making sinners of them all.

"Friends of the dearly departed. We are gathered here today to mourn the passing of a young girl, whose name could not be spoken in this town without lightening the hearts of all who heard it uttered. That name is Anna Graham, and she will ever remain a child of Greenvale as she is now a child of the Lord in Heaven above."

There is little solace to be had in the priest's words of faith, for he is an outsider at a time when even the center cannot hold. When he talks, rivulets of water stream from the corners of his mouth, and his glasses fill up with raindrops until they look like the glittering polysected eyes of an insect. _A fiend_, Emily thinks, shivering in her low-cut strapless dress, the only article of black clothing she could find on such short notice. _He looks like a demon himself_.

On either side of her are George and Thomas, the former standing rigidly with his feet wide apart and his hat pulled low over his eyes. He looks like a hulking black watchdog, standing guard against what, nobody can tell. Thomas can't stop crying, though; even with all this water coming down, everyone can tell most of it is coming from his eyes. Carol MacLaine, his sister, is nowhere to be seen, having left shortly after the community meeting. Absent too are Harry Stewart and Michael Tillotson, and a few others whose presence was not required for this intimate convergence of souls in mourning. It can only be assumed that they are conducting their sorrow in other, more private ways...

"She was beauty incarnate, both in flesh and in soul. Her hands did good work wherever she went, and her laughter begat not malice, but absolute joy. Anna was a flame in the darkness, and darkness consumed her as darkness must... Yet, too early set the sun, we cried! For one among us has raised high the dousing bucket, and destroyed that which was good and pure."

At first glance, Jim Green seems to be one of the innocents; as guileless as his grandsons, who cling to their parents' legs, staring at the opened earth with eyes unafraid. But he too is susceptible to the rain... And now, so far from the warm green breath of the forest, he feels mortality's stalking shadow creeping into his bones. He bows his head, kneads his soaking straw hat with clenched fists. A man his age should never have to witness a face so young turn so cold, so still, before his own.

Standing just in front of him, Jim's daughter Lilly sobs into her husband's shoulder. Keith looks barely able to support himself, let alone another person. But their bonds are genuine, and they may yet be spared, for Isaach and Isaiah keep watch over their parents like guardian angels. The Ingrams remember Anna's beauty, her kindness. She had always brightened their day with her visits to the Milk Barn, forever chatting away about various small trifles, distracting Keith from his work and making up silly jokes with the twins... No more, no more, the rain seems to say as it runs down their cheeks, trying to extinguish all warmth.

"Let me read now from the book of Scripture, Ecclesiastes 9:1... Ahem. _When all man has wrought is set before him, he knows not what he is worthy of. Be it love or hatred, there is but a single fate shared by the righteous and wicked, the clean and the unclean, those who make sacrifice and those who do not. For God holds all in the palm of His hand..._"

Quint Dunn stands with his father, helping to hold up the Widow Graham as she sags between them in their arms. Sallie's face is half covered by her veil, it having become dislodged sometime during the proceedings, and as her head lolls from side to side, Quint can see the awful gaping hole of her mouth, held wide open in a kind of silent scream. He turns away, but there's nowhere else to look but at the coffin, and the watery faces of his fellow mourners. He tries to dull his senses so he won't be able to hear the priest's speech; it feels like there's a vise around Quint's heart, squeezing tighter and tighter with every word. Unwillingly he imagines himself standing on the palm of God's hand, sees how he might someday be judged, and almost joins Sallie Graham in her submission to gravity.

"_As is the good, so is the sinner. Any evil that occurs under the sun is the same evil that lives in the hearts of all men. And in life they choose madness for their course, and at the end of that road lies death._"

Olivia Cormack clasps her hands together so hard even her short nails dig red half-moons into the skin. She welcomes the pain; it means she's still here, still alive, not about to be buried six feet beneath the ground in a wooden box. Of everyone here, regardless of who deserves it more, she is the one most terrified by the darkness at the end of the road. It crouches in her dreams sometimes, mocking the paper-thin fragility of her waking hours, so that even while working at the diner, surrounded by people and color and good cooking smells, sometimes she turns around in a blind panic, thinking her shadow's been stolen. Her soul's been tarnished before, but she fears the total loss of it more than anything else in the world...

Beside her, Nick digs the toe of his boot into the spongy soil, unearthing small clods of dirt. He thinks he sees an earthworm, but he's not sure. His feet are getting cold.

"_But for those among the living: Hope! A stray dog that draws breath is better off than the corpse of a lion. The living know their end is coming, but the dead know nothing, for even the memory of them is long forgotten. Never again will they have a part to play in this world; never again will they rejoin you under the sun._"

Of everyone present, there are two people in particular on whom everyone's secret attention is focused- everyone but Sallie, her grief too all-consuming to count. The first is Anna Graham, her exposed face and hands forming white positives to the black negative of the open grave that awaits her. But she has ceased to be a variable now; in fact, she remains the only constant in this equation of motives and secrets, murder and chaos. In life, she drifted through people's affairs like the petals of a golden flower, her rare beauty touching them so lightly as to appear inconsequential. Now, in death, she commands that everyone confront the void she has left behind.

"That marks the end of the verse, but not of the lesson we must take from it," the priest says. "Remember this of the dead, those who walk the earth still... Their love, their hatred, their fears, their jealousy, have been washed away long ago. They have gone and left to you the warm air, the green grass, these skies of ever-changing hue. Be grateful that you can know the rewards given without reservation or judgment to the living. Be sure your strength and courage and passion for God's gifts are the equal of the dark forces that array against you even now. Amen..."

The other individual of no small interest stands at the back of the gathering, almost outside of the protection of the tents. When he first came to town, there was a general sort of interest, a kind of cheap celebrity buzz that blew around Greenvale like pages from a gossip magazine. The strange hair, those eyes, that scar... But now that Anna's death has been crystallized by time and weather, the presence of this newcomer has taken a much sharper reality. Instead of a curiosity or mere topic of discussion, in some minds he has come to take the form of something much more...

_Special Agent_ _Francis York Morgan_, Richard will think later that evening, absently cleaning the bar top after making sure Sallie is well and truly fallen asleep in his trailer from exhaustion. _If he walked in here right now, I'd sure as hell give him a beer on the house for what he's trying to do for this town... He got the ball rollin' faster'n those good-for-nothing cops ever could. Am I bein' fair? Prolly not, but the way Sallie was carryin' on, just a few inches shy of crawlin' into her daughter's grave herself- No. You need the best for a job like this. And this Agent York has gotta be up there, or we're all screwed._

Quint will push his broom over the same spot on the floor for the next ten minutes, mind racing over his life's most recent developments in a sickening blur. _Oh God have mercy on my soul for thinking this, but please, please let Anna's murder distract him so he doesn't find out what I've been doing... Like the preacher man said, the living oughta enjoy life, not worry about the Other Side. I can let the dead be dead, God. Just leave me and Becky alone, I swear I'll make good by her, I promise..._

Somewhere on the other side of town, Nick and Olivia will sit across from each other, eating dinner in that civil, distant way of happily married couples. Olivia will tear into her chicken cordon bleu with knife and fork and think, _Agent York is so sweet, so charming. I thought he was a little intimidating at first, but what a silly fool I was to think that! Even though most of the things he says don't make sense to me the first time...Though, I never was that smart, anyway. I'll bet you have to be very sharp to get into the FBI. The job sounds so glamorous in my head, but I don't think I'd enjoy it very much. I'd just be good for serving the agents dinner, that's all. Still... It's fun to imagine..._

Nick will shove broccoli in his mouth and say, "Pass the salt, dear," without swallowing first. And he will think to himself, _If that asshole comes on to my wife again, the next dish I serve him is going to have a little "surprise" in it..._

Neither he nor his wife will have much trouble leaving the topic of Anna Graham where it belongs: Below ground, with the body. By now they are so used to burying such unsavory subjects that even death is no exception... But what will happen to their distant civility when the graveyard is full? What purposefully dull conversation could they possibly employ, to avoid the unearthed skeletons piling up around their ankles like a tide of bones?

While the Cormacks eat dinner, Jim Green will lie awak in his log cabin deep in the woods, trying to fall asleep to the sound of the rain passing through the leaves of the trees. The only lucid thought he will permit himself is one of minor social consideration, nothing to do with the funeral chill that he's managed to block out completely. _I hope Agent York wasn't too offended by my comments at the meeting. He didn't seem as if he was hiding any hurt feelings, but perhaps I was a little harsh on the man... He's only doing his job, after all. _And then, unbidden, the image of a white skull will rupture his uneasy descent into sleep, and leave him shivering in the darkness for hours. The seals on the mind preventing such visions are never as airtight as we think.

At the same time, Emily Wyatt will sit alone in her bedroom, staring at something in the palm of her hand. She will close her hand over it, fondly remembering, and then place it carefully in a wooden box on her dressing table, where she imagines it as a sort of token that will keep her safe in the night. She will think of Anna and feel a mixture of pain and anger, that such a young life could be taken so brutally; and overriding even that, a sense of duty. A need to protect her own sense of justice. And from that, her mind will turn to Agent York, and she will think simply, _He'll find whoever did this. I'm going to help him in any way I can._ As if in reward for the purity of this conviction, Emily's slumber will be relatively untroubled, her dreams free of the shadows plaguing the rest of the townsfolk during this night of sleepless speculation.

Only the rain knows that this is all yet to come. For now, Brian the local gravekeeper lifts his shovel again and again, closing the hole in the earth. And Sallie... Poor Sallie, she howls like an animal, as the black soil falls upon the black wood of her daughter's coffin with a whispering sound like a man pleading someone into silence. Then the funeral has truly ended, the people dispersing into the suddenly strange familiarity of their homes... But the two subjects of Greenvale's preoccupation linger on in their minds like spectral owls roosting in a hollow tree. The victim and the out-of-towner. The fallen rose and the stranger with the mysterious scar. Like characters from a book, or a fairy tale... And all fairy tales need a wicked stepmother, an evil wizard, a Big Bad Wolf.

As for the individuals themselves, one dead, the other not yet, they are passing the evening in very different ways. Anna Graham lies shielded from the wet night by six feet of freshly turned soil, hands clasped upon her breast, her body a nest of echoes. And Francis York Morgan, having collected all relevant data from the two formal gatherings, drives due North through the pouring rain, towards someone he once met in a strange place, surrounded by red leaves...

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	35. chapter 32: Her Name Is Becky

In what is probably the oddest chapter yet, Becky gets an unexpected visitor and York fails at making tea.

NOTE: This is part of my attempt to shore up Becky's character, one of the more interesting personalities in the game who is not really expanded upon in the rather short-lived role she has to play. Also tried to come up with an explanation for why she never tells York any of the stuff she knows. Regardless, this was a fun part to write. York is always at his best when interacting with other people via dialogue, especially people who are meeting him for the first time ever. On a side note, Project REDWOOD got a lot of unexpected hits on Wednesday of last week, for some reason. Whether you've been keeping up with the story so far, or are just getting into it for the first time: I love you all, as SWERY would say.

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**CHAPTER 32: SILENCED**

**TIME AND LOCATION: 18:03, Becky's house  
WEATHER REPORT: Heavy showers throughout the day  
FORTUNE: "Tonight, you will meet the girl of your dreams."**

Becky opens the front door half an inch, sees nobody out there in the rain-washed darkness. She had been intending to wait out whoever was knocking, jamming a pillow over her head and shutting her eyes tight; but the sound seems to reach deep into her brain, drawing her out of bed by her own rising hysteria like a dog being yanked on a leash. Finally she'd hurled herself upright and staggered through the oversized lobby, with its frightening silhouettes of everyday objects, to answer it. Even if it means her own death, anything to stop that noise...

"Hello?" The voice comes out of nowhere just as she's about to shut the door. "Is there someone named Becky who lives here?"

She widens the crack a little more, peers out onto the monochromatic front steps. There is someone standing there after all, a man in a dark suit, already drenched from the short walk from his car to the house. There's something funny about his eyes, but with the state she's in, she's hardly in a position to make a clear assessment. He doesn't seem dangerous, though...

"Who... Who're you?"

"I'm Special Agent Francis York Morgan," he says, holding up something in a black wallet that she's unable to see. "Call me York, everyone does. Becky, you didn't show up at the community meeting this afternoon, so I thought I'd stop by to fill you in on the details. I understand you're not feeling well, but this is important."

"Who told you I was sick? Was it Quint? How do you know my name?"

"...You could say it was Quint. May I come in?"

Becky starts to shake her head, then thinks about what the rest of her evening will look like without another person she can trust in the house. And for some inexplicable reason, she feels like she can trust this man, even though she's never met him before... Even though he's probably working with the police. She stands back with her arms wrapped around herself and watches York step into the lobby, closing the door behind him. As soon as he does so, everything seems subtly transformed; the sound of the rain becomes muffled, the shadows cast by the furniture appear less threatening, the mirror hanging on the wall no longer reflects things that aren't there.

Becky's eyes are more used to the lack of light than York's, and she sees him looking around, trying to find her. She leans against the back of the sofa, feeling safe in this slight advantage.

"So you're from the FBI, right?"

"Yes, that's correct."

"Quint mentioned you were in town. I'm guessing you're here because of Anna's..."

Her composure is more fragile than she'd thought. Her voice breaks mid-sentence, and she looks away. York's voice floats over to her, the darkness making the exchange seem oddly intimate.

"That's right. I've already asked most of your friends, but I'd appreciate if you could tell me anything you know about her that could help me with the case. You two were very close, weren't you?"

Tears are already running down her cheeks as she gives her answer. "She was my best friend!" And then, to her horror, she hears herself saying, "Please don't let anything happen to me!"

Agent York frowns. "What makes you think something is going to happen to you? Becky, what's wrong?"

"Nothing. I'm just scared, that's all."

"I think there's something you're not telling me."

Screaming. "I loved Anna and now she's dead! I think I have a little bit of entitlement to be upset about it!"

"If you were so upset, why didn't you go to the funeral?"

"Shut the hell up and get out of my goddamn house!"

She hears a faint sigh from his direction. Then, so softly it's as if he's not even talking to her: "You know, if I listened to every person whose told me that during a case, the Bureau'd fire me on the spot for not getting any work done." He raises his voice so she can hear him clearly. "Okay then, let's change the subject for now. I'll go over the safety and curfew procedures you missed from the meeting. It's for your own good, you know."

She closes her lips tight and lets him go on with it, the steady monotonous stream of words helping to dull the anxiety grinding away at her nerves. Besides, nothing he's saying can change what's going to happen to her. She has to consciously stamp out the impulse to tell him how futile it all is; something in her is struggling to share with this stranger the conditions for her impending doom. But Becky believes fate is a private matter. She resists the urge.

Agent York finishes, and she shrugs. "I have no problem with any of those rules. Look at me. Do I look like I'm going anywhere soon?"

"I don't know. You could have a half-packed suitcase full of clothes in that bedroom over there, and I'd never find out without a search warrant."

"You think I'm going to run?" A bitter laugh. "I wish it were that easy. But there's no escape. No getting away from..."

Her eyes widen, her hand flying to her mouth. York steps closer and she edges away, voice rising.

"You know, you should really stop asking so many questions. You're going to get us both killed."

"And why is that?" He doesn't sound sarcastic or urgent, just politely interested. But his eyes are narrowed slightly, and for the first time Becky notices the asymmetrical cut of his hairline, a pale scar running from his left temple down through the eyebrow. She feels another bout of hyperventilation coming on.

"You're in over your head, Mr. FBI Agent, or whoever you are. You have no idea what you're dealing with. I thought I knew... But I didn't. And now I'm dead. You're looking at a dead girl, Agent York. I should be lying next to Anna right now!" She feels the high-pitched laughter bubbling up from her throat. "The worms crawl in, the worms crawl out... How do you think I'd look with maggots in my eye sockets? It's the latest in women's fashion..."

She feels his hands grab her shoulders at the same time as her legs give way. He manages to lower her to the cool floor tiles, the shudders racking her body now, the laughter poisoning her stomach...

"Becky? Becky, talk to me! I'm going to phone Ushah-"

"No!" She grabs his tie and draws him closer, probably half-strangling him. "I'm not leaving this house, you understand?" she hisses. "I can't go into town, not with... the killer... still out there..."

"Do you know who he is?" York gasps, trying to pry her fingers from his collar. "What are you so afraid of?"

"There is nothing to fear but Fear Himself," Becky whispers, and faints dead away in York's arms.

_Beeeccckkkkeeeeeeee..._

She opens her eyes and sees blackness. Worse than black. Nothingness. Her heart beats in a sea of molasses. The voice swims through her body, piercing her insides.

_ It's too late for you, Becky... You ate of us, you ate so many of us... We are a part of you now... We stick to your inner flesh, we love the smell of you... You can't escape us any more than you can escape yourself... _

No, she groans. Her head thrashes on the pillow. NO.

_You will try to tell him about us... But you will fail... Becky... We love you..._

NO!

She feels a cool hand on her brow just as her upper torso tries to heave itself upwards. But her muscles are weak and aching, and it doesn't take much for her to submit to the pressure, sinking back onto the pillows and staring wildly around her bedroom.

"How... How did I get here..."

"I carried you. You've been unconscious for almost two hours."

Agent York is sitting on a chair beside the bed, leaning towards her with his hand upraised in case she tries to sit up again. Becky looks at him, then at the desk against the far wall. Her CDs are scattered across the desktop.

"...Have you been looking through my stuff?" Her voice sounds groggy.

"You weren't exactly the most stimulating company, so I was going through your music collection." He points at a white mug on her nightstand. "I also made you some tea, but it's gone cold by now."

She pulls the bed sheets up under her chin, shielding herself indignantly. "You know, you really shouldn't snoop through other people's things. Besides, I thought you said you needed a search warrant?" Wondering, with a strange numbness, what else he might have found. But it's too late now... She's already gotten rid of everything that needed getting rid of. She once read about how one of the signs that someone is about to commit suicide is if they become uncharacteristically neat and tidy, as if they're putting their affairs in order before they go. How fucking appropriate, she thinks to herself.

York looks up at the ceiling, one finger idly tapping at his collar. She notices his tie is loosened and hopes she didn't choke him too badly. "I did say that, didn't I," he says, sounding more amused than embarrassed. He shrugs, lightly. "Maybe you should call the police?"

Becky stares at him even harder. "Was that supposed to be a joke?"

He doesn't answer her question. "I think you've rested sufficiently to tell me what's going on. Quint just said you were sick, but neither of you are very good liars."

She leans back on the pillows, checking her newfound equilibrium for leakage. She thinks she has it under control this time. There is nothing anyone can do to her anymore, nobody that can touch her. Whatever it was she'd been afraid of has dissolved, leaving an impenetrable hollow at the core of her being; she knows that whatever she had let slip before, the emptiness she now feels will not allow it to happen again. She shifts around to make herself comfortable and looks York in the eye with a placid expression that comes all too naturally.

"I'm sorry if I came off a little... crazy back there in the lobby, Agent York. But I was telling the truth. I'm just scared that I'll be the next victim, that's all."

"You seem awfully calm about it all of a sudden."

"You're here with me now, aren't you? And I'm pretty sure you can't be the killer." Becky reaches for the mug and takes a sip, then makes a face.

"Blegh... What did you put in this?"

"Tea and hot water... Isn't that how you usually do it?"

"First of all, you're supposed to leave the tea in the bag. Second, I don't know how you managed to screw up such a simple process, but you did it. This tastes horrible. Haven't you ever made tea before?"

York smirks. "I'm more of a coffee drinker, myself. Tea is for the emotionally insecure."

Becky tries another sip and gives up. She puts the mug back down on the table and draws up her knees, putting her arms around her legs and resting her chin on them. If it weren't for her situation and the fact that there's an FBI agent in her bedroom, she'd almost feel like a little girl again, having a late-night talk with her sister after neither of them could fall asleep. She looks sideways at York, who is carefully examining the cover of one of the CD cases from the desk, and says sleepily, "So what now? Are you going to take me in for refusing to cooperate?"

"Not until you've given me a reason to do so. And, so far as I can tell, you've been perfectly honest with me... But telling an incomplete truth can be worse than an outright lie." He sits back in his chair and looks at her with head tilted to one side, like a cat waiting for its owner to open a can of tuna. She finally sees what was bothering her about his eyes: In the lobby, they'd looked different, but here they are quite obviously green. She wonders how she could have missed it.

"There really isn't anything else I can say."

"You're telling me you can't say anything, or won't?"

"There's nothing besides what I've told you. I don't have the energy to lie right now."

There is a pause. Then York leans forward again, elbows on his knees, and says quietly, "Becky, I'm going to have someone from the Sheriff's department keep twenty four-hour surveillance on you until this is all over. At this point in the investigation, we have a surplus of men right now, and I think if it would ease your mind enough to tell me what you know, then I'm sure they'd be more than willing to spare one officer. Does that sound good to you?"

Two hours ago, trapped in the chemical tug-of-war between paranoid adrenaline and the sweet green haze induced by the stabilizers, Becky would have fallen apart at the mere idea. Now her only response is to nod, smile faintly, and change the subject.

"Yeah. That sounds really good, actually. I just don't really feel like talking about it right now. I'm... I didn't go to the funeral because it still hurts too much. You know what I mean?"

"I know. There were a lot of people in attendance. Anna must have been very well-loved..."

She was, Becky says, but her lips only form the words. They don't actually make it out into the open.

York walks out to make a call from the phone in the kitchen. She tries to listen in, hears nothing of importance. He comes back and sits down in the same chair.

"He'll be here in about ten minutes. Officer Randall McNab, I think his name was. He'll be watching you from now on."

"Okay. Thank you."

York indicates the hallway outside the door with a nod. "It's quite a hike from here to the kitchen. Do you live here all by yourself?

"Yeah, it's another reason I get worried about my own safety sometimes. I've seen too many horror movies that take place in big houses, I guess." She tries to laugh, but it turns into something else. "Will you stay here until the officer arrives? Please? I don't want to be alone tonight."

York blinks. "Of course, but... Shouldn't that be your boyfriend's job?"

This time the laugh comes out easily. Quint was one of the first things she'd put in order, because she knew losing him would be the hardest of all. And even though it felt like her soul was being ripped out of her chest, she'd done it. Now she can say his name without feeling the ragged edges of the hole where their love once beat like a second heart...

"Quint's been neglecting his job at his father's bar for too long. I don't think he'll be able to get away from it this time."

"I see. And, I was joking, of course. I had no intention to leave you by yourself."

The CD case York had been looking at is lying on the bedspread between them. Becky reaches for it, looks at the cover, smiles.

"The Raincoats. Great band. They're kind of old, but they're one of my favorites. Probably not the type of music you'd be interested in, though..."

"Are you kidding me?" The sudden boyish alertness in his eyes surprises her. "They released a new album ten years ago that included vocals by Pete Shelley. And you know who that is. Leader of the Buzzcocks!"

"What's the Buzzcocks?"

"Only one of the greatest punk bands ever to have lived. I have a close friend who says that, anyway. They're all amazing, in my opinion, even the Sex Pistols. I can only assume that, though... For some reason we never really listened to anything by them..."

While he's talking, lost in a sort of nostalgic trance, Becky slips out of bed and pads over to the CD player. Quint bought it for her for Christmas, back when they were going out together in grade ten. It seems so much longer ago... She puts in the CD, hits the Next Track button a few times, and turns up the volume. Strange, springy abrasions pour out of the tiny speakers, accompanied by Ana da Silva's nasally, rambling voice as she sings:

_It makes no difference  
Night or day  
No one teaches you how to live  
Cups of tea are a clock  
A clock! A clock! A clock!_

"Fairytale in the Supermarket. They remastered it for the CD version," Becky replies to York's unasked question. She sits back down on the bed, cross-legged, and realizes she hasn't listened to any kind of music in almost three months. Not since she and Anna graduated...

_The times I forgot but never forgot  
I don't know the books that you read  
But you don't say that  
Love never externalizes  
You're re-reading a book  
To feel reassured  
By the life of your favorite hero_

Becky turns off the lamp and the two of them sit in the darkness, soaking up the music as raindrops spatter the shuttered windows outside. And it occurs to her that, despite the bizarreness of it all, her being a teenaged emotional wreck and him an odd grown-up from the FBI who just happened to show up on her doorstep on the second-to-last night of her life, hanging out together in her bedroom, listening to this soothingly weird song... It all seems so normal compared to everything else that's been happening to her lately. Everything that's going to happen.

She looks over at the man in the chair, maybe to check if he feels the same way, but there's no telling from outward appearance. He's got two fingers to his temple as if he's trying to remember something, and his eyes are closed. She wonders if it would be okay to ask him about his scar... And then she realizes she has one last piece of unfinished business to carry out.

_The roots of your thoughts  
They're essentially Polaroidal  
When you look at my picture  
Don't say it's your mirror  
Don't say we're both paranoid_

"Agent York... I..."

He doesn't even open his eyes. "Yes, Becky?"

"I have a favor to ask you."

At this, he puts his hand down and gives her a serious look. "As long as it's nothing illegal. Like, for example, drug trafficking."

"No... Not this time, anyway," she says, wondering which one of them is truly kidding. "I need you to give something to Quint. It's a... return-to-sender kind of thing."

She retrieves the small velvet-covered box from her dresser and hands it to him. York turns it over in his hand, frowning slightly. He holds it up between them without even opening it.

"I'm not exactly a messenger boy for the lovelorn teens of Greenvale, you know. I'd imagine you'll see him much sooner than I will. Why not give it to him then?"

She wishes she could tell him the reason, but even as the crimson tendrils are worming their way up her throat, snaring the words and dragging them back down into the black pit of acid and oblivion, she finds that featureless resignation dimming her resolve. But there's one thing she can talk about, one small clue that might make its way through the forest of red trees and out where Agent York might be able to use it somehow... Just like that secret she had managed to pass on to her sister, before the voices began their campaign to silence her...

_Tear me - make me glad  
Don't ask me anything  
I'm no secret agent  
Got no colors to give to you_

"Take that box back to Quint for me, Agent York. And while you're there, ask him to tell you a story..."

"What kind of a story?"

Becky hears the sound of a car cruising up the driveway, the police cruiser's engine rumble cutting out under the unremitting sibilation of rainwater on gravel. Her bodyguard has arrived; they're running out of time. There's a heavy taste of foreign spices in the back of her throat. She says, with the last of her strength, "The kind that start like 'Once upon a time, in a far-away kingdom...'"

York's green eyes widen, but before he can say anything else, someone is knocking at the front door. He gets up to answer it, tucking the box into his suit pocket, and leaves her in the room, staring at the ceiling. She is now truly emptied out, having given up everything that once gave her life meaning. She is now ready to be taken. Why not? There is hardly anything for them, the carrion bastards, left to feed on. She's won. All that remains can be summed up in the final verse of the song, and in a few remote seconds, that too will be gone.

_But don't worry, honey don't worry  
This is just a fairytale  
Happening in the supermarket_

The CD player hums aimlessly, then falls quiet. Just as it does so, York comes back into the room, a young-ish looking officer with sandy hair and a round face in tow. The two of them stop in the doorway when Becky turns her head towards them, her brown hair making a sound on the pillow like someone walking through a pile of leaves. York has a faintly stricken look on his face, but she can't help him now. She's given him everything she had, and now it's up to him...

"Hello, Agent York. ...Officer," she whispers, and her face smiles without her help. "I'm feeling much better now that you're here to protect me..."

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	36. chapter 33: Notes

In which we get to read a bunch of papers.

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**CHAPTER 33: NOTES  
****TIME AND LOCATION: 20:24, Great Deer Yard Hotel  
WEATHER REPORT: Heavy showers continuing overnight  
FORTUNE: "The meeting of minds is like the meeting of vegetables in a pot: They must be cooked long and slow for the stew's flavor to manifest."**

Papers cover the wooden desk in York's hotel room. Scraps photocopied from Thomas's notepad, pages from York's own typewritten report (Polly almost breaking her back carrying the massive black machine from the storage closet, until he'd shown up to take it the rest of the way, saying, "Polly, when I said I needed something to write with, I was thinking more along the lines of a few sheets of paper and a ballpoint pen. But thank you, this will do nicely.") and additional material jotted down while conversing with the locals. Assembled in order, they read something like this:

DAY 3 OF INVESTIGATION: PROFILES OF GREENVALE RESIDENTS  
COMMUNITY CENTER MEETING + FUNERAL

Straight after going over safety and curfew, immediately followed up with one-on-one conversations with individual residents for the purposes of data gathering. Starting with the following:

-HARRY STEWART AND MICHAEL TILLOTSON. Confronted the duo about their unwarranted frightening of the other townsfolk with generally unsettling behavior. Had Thomas on hand to write down Michael's answer in poetry; good thing because there was a lot of it this time. It goes as follows:

_ "Time flows like a river, but we all float upstream  
Don't swim against it; life is but a dream  
Our currents will cross if you try not to row  
When the moment is right for our meeting, you'll know.  
For now, you must follow the roots of a tree  
And find out the source of this purple ennui  
The malaise that seeps through the layers of fate-  
Find out and stop it before it's too late!  
So says Mr. Stewart."_

Another reference to purple. Water and trees... Harry knows something, even if George thinks it's rubbish. Will have to take his advice to wait and see what's really the case.

-RICHARD DUNN. Owner of the SWERY65, a darts bar on the west side of town. Seems like a nice guy, a little rough around the edges. Had to leave early to pick up Sallie Graham from her home for the funeral. Seems close with the widow, apparently... I asked him about it, but he just laughed and said he'd tell me about it if I said where I got my scar from. I said it was confidential. R. seemed impressed, but that was the end of the conversation. Will have to drop in on the bar some time and check out the drinks selection.

-QUINT DUNN. Richard's son, late teens or early 20's. Had an odd feeling about him, think we've seen him before. Correctly guessed his name purely by the letter "Q" on his hat, Quint being the only name starting with Q. I could think of. Also guessed, correctly again, that missing Becky is his girlfriend. Becky feeling too ill to attend meeting, Q. said. Will have to check up on her later.

LATER NOTES: Can't exactly pin down this feeling I have about the kid, except that he's hiding something. Seems genuinely sad about Anna; the two were probably acquaintances, his girlfriend being close friends with the victim. His frustration with the local police force's apparent inability to "shine their own shoes" as he put it (these country folk have the most amazing sayings!) was convincing too, but I have a hunch that this investigation will reveal more than I want to know about him.

MORE NOTES: Q. looked like he was going to be sick at funeral, both him and his father. Whatever Q. has been keeping secret, it's not his emotion over Anna's death.

-KEITH AND LILLY INGRAM. The original Odd Couple. Both run the Milk Barn convenience store, which we must check out, esp. since Lilly is giving us special 50% discount off everything in store "to help with the case". Seems genuinely friendly. Husband Keith is old-school rock-and-roller who refers to me by the name "FBI". Not sure how I feel about this. Lilly appears some 10 years older than him, both in appearance and maturity.

They are also of course the parents of the Ingram Twins. Thought about mentioning their children's' appearances in my dreams as of late, but decided that would be too alarming. REMEMBER: Isaach wears green, Isaiah blue. Apparently this was the mother's idea, to help people tell them apart. Brilliant! Though I would have picked yellow and black, myself.

***NOTE: Becky works at Milk Barn part-time. Hasn't been in lately due to her illness. This confirms what Q. said, but still should investigate further.

-JIM GREEN. Turns out he's Lilly's father. Asked about the red flowers found at the forest park. Jim had to think for a second, but knew what I was talking about. Said he's never seen those flowers in the forest before. I suggested he take me to see them tomorrow; he didn't seem too enthusiastic. However, I am in charge here, so he had to say yes eventually.

Not much else to add here. Still is not happy with me being in Greenvale; said I make him sick when he sees me because I remind him of all the bad, evil people in the world. I suppose this means I can't help but track the scum of the earth wherever I go, even while I'm trying to fight it. No point in explaining this to the old man; he's absolutely right. I think he's afraid I'll corrupt his grandsons somehow. Wonder if he's seen "Village of the Damned" (though I've only seen the John Carpenter remake).

-"RAGING BULL" JACK AND GINA "THE ROSE". ***Possible new lead!*** Saw trace of red powder on Jack's boot. Bent down and pretended to clean off some mud while secretly collecting the evidence for UJ. later; thought the hoodlum was going to kick me in the face. Sure he remembers our last encounter well enough, though. Asked George about him; has long string of minor offenses, charges of harassment later dropped, nothing too major. Still, connection to GRANDMA'S BASKET undeniable. Jack now strong suspect.

PS: Jack is married (?) Amazing. Wife offered "extra service" next time we stop by the station. Nice of her, gasoline prices way too high as of late.

-USHAH JOHNSON. Seems even more disturbed than last time we met. Red eyes, light perspiration. His schedule hasn't been particularly heavy, so not work-related stress. He smells a bit strange, too. Think he should take some of his own medicine, literally. Anyway, made an appointment for tomorrow in the afternoon to go over his analysis of the red flower and the powder found in locker 4011 at the high school. He said he couldn't promise anything.

Despite being from the big city, Ushah seems to have picked up the rural habit of trying to keep as many secrets as possible. Don't know whose worse at hiding them: The doctor, or Q. At least Q. has the excuse of being young; U. really ought to know better.

-BRIAN THE INSOMNIAC, LAST NAME UNKNOWN. Local grave keeper, maintains Greenvale Cemetery. Interesting individual. Told him I liked his retro sense of fashion, sort of a "Little Grave on the Prairie" look: Pasty white skin, dark circles under eyes, white shirt with black pants and suspenders, an old-fashioned hat. He didn't seem to hear anything I said, just kind of mumbled under his breath and wandered off. Could be the lack of sleep causing him to lose focus, which begs the question: Could his sleep disorder be the result of guilt? Still, even though he acted the most suspicious out of everyone we met today, pinning it on the mime-wannabe would probably be too easy.

-NICK AND OLIVIA CORMACK. Not much to add. Olivia seemed happy to see me, Nick less so. Complimented O. on her hair, looks much nicer when not done up in the tight bun she wears at work. Asked them about Anna and her job working at the diner. O. said something interesting about Anna always coming in late the day after in rained, seemingly in a trance, as if she'd used all her energy up the day before. Could be coincidence or something more, but we need more clues.

N. surly as usual. Had no relevant information and evaded all my questions. Must keep an eye on this one. Also remember to ask what he put in that soup to make it taste so light, yet so filling.

-CAROL MACLAINE. Had to drag Thomas along to take notes; he was more uncomfortable than ever. Just as Emily said, Carol is the deputy's younger sister and runs the other bar in town, the GALAXY OF TERROR. She honestly doesn't seem like the type who watches a lot of Roger Corman, but didn't have time to ask her about that. Conversation was recorded as follows:

_Y: Mind if I smoke?_

_C: (looks out window, smoking cigarette) Do I look like I'd mind?_

_Y: (takes out cigarette, lights it) What can you tell me about Anna?_

_C: Anna was... an airhead._

_T: Carol! What a thing to say-_

_Y: It's okay, Thomas. (to C.) What do you mean? You're saying she was killed because she was an airhead, or she was an airhead for getting killed?_

_C: I'm sure she's still an airhead, even now. Even in Heaven..._

_Y: You make it sound as if she led a very happy existence._

_C: (blowing smoke) She changed her hair almost every week. If she lost a pound, she'd be ecstatic; gain one and she'd almost be in tears. Such a klutz, too... When she worked at the diner, she was always breaking stuff. Plates, mugs, almost every day it was something. And the whole time she'd always have a smile on her face, always having fun... One look at her and you'd know at a glance what she was._

_Y: And what was that?_

_C: A beautiful, loving little airhead._

_Y: Did people ever get mad at her for breaking so much dishware?_

_C: (harsh laugh) They'd be smiling right along with her. Like they couldn't help it. Like they were under her spell. I wouldn't be surprised if the angels were laughing right along with her, even as we speak._

_(long pause)_

_Y: Isaach and Isaiah said Anna was a fairy of the forest... A goddess._

_C: ..._

The transcription ends abruptly with C. suddenly walking off without another word. Thomas apologized, but there was nothing we could do. She's a free spirit, after all.

***LATER NOTE: Did not see C. at funeral, either. Something fishy is going on...

Also of interest, though less so than the previous subjects whom I believe have more importance to the case, are the following individuals in no particular order:

-GENERAL LYSANDER. Our car has apparently been fixed. I think I hid it well, but inside I was ecstatic. Will be nice to have something to look forward to tomorrow after all this doom and gloom. Was tempted to ask Lysander about the uniform, but something tells me now is not the time. Maybe tomorrow...

-WESLEY, LAST NAME UNKNOWN. Arms dealer and gunsmith, runs the gun store "Panda Bear" near the Milk Barn. Normally I would be inclined to suspect such a potentially shady character, but he told me he was negotiating a big deal in Seattle at the time of Anna's death, and I'm fairly certain his story will check out. Said if I was still suspicious, or if I'm ever in need of extra ammo, I should stop by. Think I will soon; although recent events have had a tinge of unreality to them, my diminishing supply of bullets is definitely real.

-FRECKLY FIONA. Seems a little less chipper than usual, no doubt because of the funeral, but still greeted me with a smile and wave. Got into a conversation about our mutual friend the doctor. She's very admiring of him, told me how hard-working he is (and how wealthy). Young and rich- the perfect combination for our ambitious Fiona.

She didn't mention the note or his odd behavior. Probably just lovestruck.

-"ROAMING" SIGOURNEY. Was surprised to see our friend the Pot Lady show up at the community meeting. She stayed near the door the whole time, looking like she was about to jump out of her own skin. Assume she was in a hurry to get back home so her pot wouldn't get cold. Richard graciously offered her a ride before going to pick up the Widow Graham, but she refused. Odd.

-SALLIE GRAHAM. ***Later note: Only showed up for daughter's funeral, was an emotional mess for entire service. Most of her statements to police are well-documented, so not much more I can ask her about Anna's death. Would probably only worsen her condition. Best to leave her be for now...

Afterwards, as people were getting ready to leave for funeral, I followed up on leads with Greenvale police. George said he and Emily would do some digging tomorrow on which student last used locker 4011, which will give us a good starting position on GRANDMA'S BASKET (GB). Zach and I have a strong suspicion that the red seeds, though they seem to be strangely absent from the investigation so far and at any rate continue to defy all attempts at forensic analysis, have something to do with the red powder found in that locker.

Besides the mystery of GB, the connection between the seeds, the flowers and the powder, and picking up my car, the first order of business tomorrow will be checking on Miss Diane Ames, the mystery woman who runs the Muses Art Gallery here in town. Strange place for such a grandiose monument to high culture; saw the building in a tourist pamphlet the other day and was quite impressed. E. seemed to take offense at my comment that it was almost glamorous enough to be mistaken for an art gallery in downtown New York, where it wouldn't stick out so much. She used the word "prejudiced". I'm not much of an art critic myself, but am looking forward to meeting this Diane. E. did not look pleased.

FINAL NOTES OF THE DAY: BECKY

Went to visit Becky, the girl I saw in my dream last night. Somehow I knew exactly where her house would be without having to ask around. Definitely a side-effect of the coffee improving my navigational skills. B. was reluctant to let me in or answer my questions, and appeared visibly distressed for the first half of my visit. She then fainted and I put her to bed, deciding not to call U. in order to placate her wishes. She seemed better afterwards, though even more vague when questioned. Could not be sure exactly what it was she was keeping from me, but assigned her a 24 hour police escort to set her mind at ease, make it easier for her to provide information. Also B. has excellent taste in music.

It is a tangled web that's starting to emerge. Red seeds on the victim a given, their origins a mystery. Red powder found in locker at high school Anna attended, probably same powder found on Jack's boot. Red raincoat = red hood = Little Red Riding Hood = Grandma's Basket, the inscription on the locker where the red powder was found. B. gave me a ring to take to Q., with the instructions to ask him to tell me a story that begins with "Once upon a time...", i.e. a fairy tale, another Red Riding Hood link. Red flowers found with Anna's body. U.'s strange behavior. Red leaves in my dreams, red vines in my nightmares. And on top of it, hasn't stopped raining all day. Going to bed now to let mind refresh itself. Have feeling this case may take a while...

TOMORROW TO-DO LIST:  
-Go with G. and E. to Muses Gallery to question Diane.  
-Pick up car.  
-See Jim Green about flowers.  
-Follow up on U. and powder analysis.  
-Ask Q. about R. Hood.  
-Time providing, see if video rental store carries Jaws.

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	37. chapter 34: The Drop Off

In which two new players join the party...

* * *

**CHAPTER 34: THE DROP-OFF**

**TIME AND LOCATION: 23:11, on the road  
WEATHER REPORT: Heavy showers continuing overnight  
FORTUNE: ?**

The streets are a blurry collage of dark blues, slate browns and muddy grays, each hue barely distinguishable from each other as the rain slashes through the fragile outlines of shape and shadow. The result is a distortion of vision that makes identifying concrete objects nigh impossible: Sidewalks could be snakes, windows could be toothless mouths, telephone poles could be trees stripped black and branchless by the downpour. Then something breaks through the silvered curtain, as a whale breaks the surface of a stormy sea- It coughs and rumbles, headlights glowing like the eyes of some ancient underwater creature as yet undiscovered by man. It's a pick-up truck, either rusted all over or painted the color of rust. There's a doghouse in the truck bed with a single occupant, a dark-eyed creature with white and black-spotted fur. The Dalmation's tail thumps in time with the truck's coughing as it stares out at the ever-retreating landscape with its head on its paws. Every once in a while it lets out a doggy sneeze, but is otherwise completely silent.

The truck grinds to a halt outside a handsome building of wood and brick, or at least it would be handsome if the weather had not reduced it to an angular, featureless blot on the sliver of tree line behind it. Still faintly visible, in dark, curling script carved with handcrafted precision on the wooden sign out front, are the words: MUSES GALLERY.

For a while, nothing seems to be happening but the rain. The Dalmatian stops moving altogether, as if soothed by the rhythmic chug of the truck's idling engine. Then the passenger side door opens, light spilling out onto the puddles on the walkway, and a pair of legs in sheer, black-rose pantyhose swing out into the cold, wet night. And a female voice that would bring most men to their knees, in a tone that would send them the rest of the way down, says:

"Thanks for the lift."

The bulky shadow in the driver's seat nods. The woman laughs, in a manner carefully controlled to sound carefree and spontaneous.

"So quiet tonight! Can't say which version I like better, the strong and silent you, or the one that makes me giggle like a little girl. ...Oh, I see what you want. A goodnight kiss, is that it? Well, as long as it doesn't turn you back into a frog."

There's a slight hitch in the truck's springs as the woman leans back into the cab, and the dog perks up its ears. The woman's voice drifts out, lazily.

"Can't you even put that bloody thing down for a second?"

No answer. The two figures, as seen through the bleary windshield, meet, linger, then part. There's a few more softly exchanged words that are swept away by the rain; then the woman is trotting gaily up the front steps of the gallery, turning once to wave goodbye to the driver. A hand appears, upraised, in the shadows of the cab, five chubby fingers wiggling in brief farewell. Then it disappears, and the truck roars to life once more. The dog puts its head back down as it pulls away, a whimper caught in the back of its throat, unable to escape.

The Muses Gallery seems to float away down the road, away from the truck, which ploughs through the slick darkness with the mindless confidence of a shark through water. Eventually the building vanishes completely, leaving only the long snail-trail of the road and the jagged black cut-outs of trees on either side. Behind the wheel, the driver pats his ample stomach, and with a contented sigh places a small, potted sapling in the passenger's seat vacated by the woman. Its glossy red leaves tremble slightly with every bump and jolt, and once in a while the driver speaks gibberish in a low, soothing voice, as if to calm it down. A sign flashes by, indicating the direction of the Great Deer Yard Hotel, and the speed of the truck increases perceptibly. Water streams across the windshield, but the driver makes no move to activate the wipers. At some point he stops talking and begins to whistle, a bright, cheery tune that seems to go on forever.

Elsewhere, southeast of the gallery, Agent York lies teetering on the twilit precipice of not-quite asleep and fallen asleep. Just before he finally drops off, the smallest of sounds escapes the back of his throat, as if he were a child having a bad dream... But tonight, of all nights, he does not dream. And the sound he makes is that of the dog's whimper, having come unstuck at last, a barely audible pitch of the kind that only mothers seem able to hear, in the dead of night, when monsters come out to play on their children's pillows.

Headlights play swiftly across the hotel room's shuttered windows, and there is the sound of footsteps in the parking lot. But York, drifting in the void, hears and sees nothing.

And the rain pours down...

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	38. chapter 35: FK

Welp, school's well underway. I don't know how quickly I'm going to be able to update from here on in, but I've got a few completed chapters waiting in the wings already, so things should keep running pretty smoothly. I've been managing to bang out sections in between homework at a fairly steady rate, so I doubt it's going to have to go on hiatus any time soon. Just don't expect me to keep going at this pace- Remember what Mr. Stewart said about not hurrying things!

Don't forget, you can leave comments as a guest without being registered with , so if you like what you see so far, don't hesitate to drop me a line! Site tools allow me to see how many people are reading this, so that's good, but I always appreciate feedback. So thanks to those of you who've been following this so far. You can also find me on the Deadly Premonition forums shared by Planet REDWOOD and Welcome to Greenvale if you want to chat it up with other DP nerds:

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Oh, this chapter. IN WHICH THE PLOT THICKENS.

* * *

**CHAPTER 35: FK**

**DAY 4  
TIME AND LOCATION: 8:07, Great Deer Yard Hotel  
WEATHER REPORT: Slightly overcast  
FORTUNE: "FK"  
**

"Whoa, there!"

I turn my head slowly to the right. Standing just outside our hotel room door, moving surprisingly quickly for his size, a very large man in denim overalls and a yellow plaid shirt hastens backwards as I step into the hall. Zach, we didn't order room service, did we?

"...Did you need something?"

He adjusts his glasses as I stare at him, then runs one hand through his thick brown hair. In the other hand, he carries a small potted tree sapling, its leaves a pale orange. Then he belts out a laugh.

"Oh, no, I was just passing by!" he exclaims. The man's voice has the faintest Southern tinge to it, a "good 'ol boy" kind of voice. "I didn't think anyone else was here, other than Polly. I was walkin' down the hall and heard noises coming from behind this here door, and, well, it opening all of a sudden like that, it just surprised me, that's all."

"Woof! Woof!"

There's a barking sound, and I realize that there's a dog hidden somewhere behind the man's ample girth. I crane my head to look, but the fat man leans over with his hand outstretched, blocking my view.

"I'm Kaysen," he says. "Forrest Kaysen. I'm a sapling salesman. Always on the road, always on the move. Sometimes I feel less like a man and more like, I dunno, a jolly old bumblebee spreading pollen everywhere. But that's the price for keeping bread and honey on the table, right? Oh ho ho!"

His tone is friendly enough, but I'm bothered by a strange sense of familiarity. As if I've seen him somewhere before. You know what I'm talking about, Zach?

...You're drawing a blank too, huh? Well, it'll probably come back to me after I get some coffee in my system. In the meantime, it seems he wants us to shake hands. His flesh is soft, and slightly moist. I withdraw, suppressing the urge to wipe my hand on my jacket. Scenes from "The Kindred", directed by Stephen Carpenter in 1987, flash unbidden through my mind.

"Well, that's my story, anyway," Kaysen says, switching the potted plant to the hand I just shook. "And you must be that Special Agent Scarface Polly's been yakkin' about!"

"FBI Special Agent, Francis York Morgan," I say, flashing my badge. "And I think I'd need a bigger scar to live up to that nickname. Just call me York. That's what everyone calls me."

His laughter is so infectiously jolly that I can't help but smile along. "Okay, you got it, York! Nice to meetcha," he says, and winks.

Zach, at first I was a little perturbed that this man was standing between me and breakfast. But now that we've introduced ourselves, we ought to make time to get to know him a little better. He is a traveling salesman after all, here today and gone tomorrow. He could blow away on the wind at any moment... Well, maybe not with all that extra weight on him, but you know what I mean.

"Is this your first visit to Greenvale, then?" I inquire. Kaysen shakes his head.

"No sir; actually, I've been coming here once or twice a year for a while now. I don't get much business in these parts- after all, who needs trees when you're surrounded by 'em?- but it sure does make for a nice vacation! I mean, look at this gorgeous hotel. And at a bargain rate, too. Why, to be surrounded by this much nature and relaxation, I'd've paid twice as much for-"

He gestures expansively, and I catch a glimpse of a dog with white fur and black spots sitting obediently on the carpet behind Kaysen. As soon we notice each other, its large dark eyes gazing into my own, it trots forward past its master and stops about two feet away from me. It sits down again and thumps its tail on the floor, pink tongue lolling from its mouth. I crouch down to meet it face to face as Kaysen burbles merrily on.

"Oh, gosh, how rude of me. I haven't introduced you two! York, say hi to Willie. Don't worry, he won't bite. He's a good boy. And pretty darn smart, too!"

I feel a slight smile lifting the corners of my mouth. "Hey, Willie. How ya doing?"

The dog barks a response. Is it just me, Zach, or is Willie grinning back at us? It's so hard to tell what animals are really thinking. Up above, Kaysen hovers like an expectant mother.

"Did you ever own a dog as a kid, York?"

I stand up, brushing my knees. "I wasn't allowed to keep pets with fur in the house, actually. My mother was allergic."

Kaysen makes a sympathetic face. "Aw, that's really too bad! Willie and I have been together for so long, we might as well be joined at the hip. I don't know what I'd do without him, tell you the truth. In fact..." He beckons me closer with a sausage-like finger and stage-whispers, "Just between you and me, Willie here is kinda the brains of the whole operation. Oh ho ho ho!"

This time I join him in laughter. I can't help it- His good-humor is like a cold virus. I'm sure it's part of what makes him such a successful businessman. There are people out there who could sell legs to a fish, based on natural charisma alone.

After a few more words of small talk, the conversation wraps up and I start to head around him on my way to the dining room. But Kaysen snaps his fingers, says, "Oh, before I forget... Let me give you this. It's a sales sample, got a dozen of 'em in the truck. Here!" And he hands me the potted sapling.

I heft it, watching the pinkish-orange leaves tremble on their slender branches. The width of the trunk, if you can call it that, can't be much thicker than my index and middle fingers put together. There's an unformed quality to the color of the leaves and bark, hinting at some as yet unforeseen development in its growth cycle.

"Thanks... How kind of you," I murmur, turning it round to view every angle. Kaysen watches with a wide grin on his face, nodding approvingly.

"I don't mean to brag, but you're holding in your hands the product of years and years of experimental trial-and-error. I'm pretty much the only one who can make those beauties sprout, you know."

"Oh really?" Stay sharp, Zach. I think you know where this is leading. "Kaysen," I say, putting the little sapling down on the floor just outside the door to our room. "Would you mind joining us for breakfast? I have a few... gardening questions I'd like to ask you."

"Gardening, eh? You don't look much like a green thumb!" He guffaws. "But sure, I never say no to a good meal. Even if it's the second one of the morning. I just can't help myself!"

Ten minutes later, we're sitting across from him in the dining room, watching him put away whole rashers of bacon at a rate that would put a starving pack of hyenas to shame. Fortunately he's a much tidier eater than a wild animal, though. Not a drop is spilled or a crumb wasted as he brings the food to his mouth, his hands and jaw working in an almost graceful choreography. If it weren't for the fact that we have serious business to attend to, Zach, it would almost be like watching a ballet or opera performance. A virtuoso is a virtuoso no matter what the activity.

"So what did you want to ask me about?" he says, somehow managing to enunciate clearly even with his mouth full. Years of practice, perhaps. It seems he loves to talk as much as he loves to eat.

"What can you tell me about seeds?"

"Seeds? Like the kind my saplings come from?"

"Sure. You told me you were the only one who could make them grow. Tell me about that."

Kaysen wipes his mouth and wags a playful finger in our direction. "Now now, Agent York, I hope you're not trying to steal the secret formula! But it doesn't matter. There's a trick to it that can't really be passed on, you see... It's like the secret to making a good smoked ham. Speaking of ham, could you-"

I slide over the tray and he starts refilling his plate with thick slices of pinkish meat. Then he continues, "But you know, once they do sprout, you don't need to do much. You can leave it be, rain or shine, and it'll shoot up into a big 'ol tree no matter what happens. You know those stocks that politicians buy, the kind that keep on growin' and growin'. Like that, ya know?"

He stuffs his face and watches me intently. I ignore this last awkward analogy, saying, "There don't seem to be any of your trees here in Greenvale yet. Are you hoping to expand your market base?"

"Well, you just wait and see. This town is gonna love 'em. I'm always tryin' out new cultivation methods, and I think I've perfected it this time. Just be glad you got a freebie, 'cuz these things are gonna be in high demand by the time I'm through here!"

He laughs for about two minutes. I timed it.

"So what brings the ol' FBI out here?" he asks, the chuckles finally subsiding. "Sounds like more than just a vacation!"

"A murder, actually," I tell him, watching his eyes widen behind those thick glasses. I relate the basic facts, listing all the salient precautions from the community meeting and warning him about the perpetrator still being at large and to stay indoors when it rains. Kaysen shakes his head, actually seeming to lose his appetite for a moment.

"It's a darn shame, isn't it?" he sighs. "Places like this used to be like oases of safety. The best in America! Especially for raising kids, or so I've been told. Have you met the Ingrams? Lovely family. It breaks my heart to think something's out there that could put them in danger like this."

"Yes, though it seems that the young women are in the most perilous situation here. Still, the rest of us can't be too careful."

I hear Willie's barking coming from the hall. Kaysen hastily stands up, having magically produced another sapling from nowhere that he now tucks under his right arm.

"Drat, I almost forgot. Willie and I were just about to go on our morning stroll before bumping into you. I swear, if it weren't for that dog, I'd put my own head in a pot and try to water it... Well, it was nice meeting you, York. Good luck with the case!"

"Thanks," I say, once again taken aback by how swiftly the man moves. Kaysen makes his way to the doors, then turns around and calls, "By the way, I like the tie! Is it Valentine's Day already?"

And with a wave and another hearty laugh, the fat man jogs off, Willie trotting at his heels as the two of them disappear down the hall. At the same time, Polly emerges from the kitchen to clear away the dirty dishes. Her mouth falls open at the sight of the mountains of empty food trays scattered around me.

"Why, Mr. Morgan, you certainly were hungry today, weren't you?" she exclaims, bustling around. If anyone in this hotel is like a busy bumblebee, it's Polly Oxford. "I hope you enjoyed yourself!"

"It was as delicious as ever, Polly, thank you. ...Although, I can't take all the credit for eating all this food. I did have some help. You see, I just ran into Forrest Kaysen a moment ago, and-"

" Mr. Kaysen!" Polly claps her hands together, looking delighted. "Did he give you one of his saplings?"

"He did, actually," I say, surprised. "Don't tell me he gives one to everyone he meets."

"Oh no, just to the people he feels comfortable with. He told me himself. He must have liked you on sight, Mr. Morgan!"

Interesting, Zach... I wonder if this Kaysen fellow is a terribly good judge of character. Maybe the dog is the clue; that Willie seems like he'd be able to sniff out phony friendliness. The two of them seem to make a pretty team, and Kaysen did say they'd been together for a long time... I think I'd be envious of that relationship if it weren't for you, Zach. Personally I'd take you over a dog any day.

...What do you mean, what do I mean? It was a compliment, right? Besides, you can't take a dog to a movie theater. That's a partnership doomed to failure.

Polly starts stacking plates, and I lean over to ask her, "Polly, is there anyone in town he hasn't given a sapling to?"

"Mustard? I don't know what you're planning to put it on, but let me just grab it from the kitchen..."

"No, Polly, wait!" I remember at the last second to raise my voice. "I was just wondering if you knew of anyone Kaysen didn't give a sapling to!"

Her hand goes up to her mouth in concern. "Too much pepper? Ah, I thought it might be. I'm sorry... By the way, Mr. Morgan. Is that a new tie?"

"Yes, it is," I sigh, giving up. She's an impenetrable fortress, that woman. "The rest of my ties are at the dry cleaners."

"It's very dashing. Reminds me of something my Frederick would have worn. Well, then, Mr. Morgan. Shall I take your empty cup?"

I hand over the coffee mug, thinking about the dark dregs at the bottom and wondering if they still spell out those fateful letters that we saw on our first day here. The letters that have finally manifested themselves this morning...

FK.

Forrest Kaysen.

He's hiding something. You think so too, right Zach? But like Harry said, no need to rush... All secrets are hidden, until they are inevitably divulged through the powers of entropy. The world exposes everything, causes chaos... Just like milk in a mug of coffee. Sometimes you need to stir things up in order to see things as they truly are.

Well, then, Zach. That does it for breakfast. I believe I can see a police cruiser pulling up in the parking lot; perfect timing. I'm anticipating this art gallery meeting with bated breath- it's always exciting when you find that missing piece of the jigsaw buried in the sofa cushions, because even if you can't place it right away, at least you know the puzzle can be solved.

Miss Diane Ames. Even her name sounds elegant.

I wonder if Kaysen gave her a sapling, too?...

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	39. chapter 36: Backseat Critic

In which talking and driving ensue, at the same time.

* * *

**CHAPTER 36: BACKSEAT CRITIC  
****TIME AND LOCATION: 8:49, hotel parking lot  
WEATHER REPORT: Slightly overcast  
FORTUNE: "Your companions will talk behind your back. A room of many forests awaits you."**

Emily notices George seems more cheerful today than he ever has since this case started, and she thinks she can guess the reason. Oh boy, she thinks to herself. This is going to be a long morning. It can only help the sheriff's good mood that Agent York, for once, is right on time, coming through the hotel's front doors just as they get out of the car. He raises his hand in greeting as he approaches them.

"Hello, Agent Morgan," George says, pleasantly enough. "Did you sleep well?

"Morning, George. Yes, I did. Dreamland was quite nice."

"You do look well-rested," Emily says, yawning uncontrollably. She waves off the two men's stares. "I'm sorry, I was up practically all night doing paperwork. Thomas helped out so I was able to get some sleep, but not enough."

"Yes, and it shows!" York speaks so genially that at first Emily has no idea whether she's been insulted or not. Then she wonders if she ought to be used to this confusion by now, at least where York is concerned. She points at his chest and says, knowing it's a form of petty revenge that will have no effect on him whatsoever, "Are you really going to wear that to the meeting?"

"What, this?" York looks down at himself. "I assume you're talking about my tie."

"It's got pink hearts on it."

"I know, and I usually only save it for very special occasions," York says regretfully. "But I have a problem. A paradox, if you will. You see, even though I own more ties than suits, every time I need to get something cleaned, I always end up running out of ties before I run out of suits! Wearing this outfit is like eating that last chocolate chip cookie after you've already drank all your milk. You feel like something's gone horribly wrong, but it's nobody's fault, and you just have to live with it."

"Oh. Well. That's how the cookie crumbles, I guess," Emily says lamely, having nothing else to say to this.

"Diane got back into town late last night," George says, getting down to business. "I've arranged for us to pay her a visit. She said she'd be in anytime from 9 to 12, so we should get going."

"The art gallery, right?"

"She lives and works out of her office. Used to share a house with her kid sister- both of 'em are loaded, by the way- but eventually she just took up residence in the gallery."

"Sister, huh?" York gets behind the wheel, and Emily climbs in the backseat. George shuts the passenger door and York pulls out of the parking lot, still musing. "Have I met this lost Ames sibling yet?"

"I heard from Thomas that you dropped by her place yesterday after the funeral."

"Who, Becky?" There is rare astonishment in York's voice. "I had no idea she was related to Diane! I wondered how she was able to afford a mansion all the way out in the middle of nowhere."

"And then you took one of my men off the case to keep an eye on her. Is that right?"

Emily stiffens, but there's none of the usual tension in George's voice that suggests he might be trying to start a fight. What could have caused this change in him? It's like he's undergone a transformation, emerging from his bitter coccoon into a rather solicitous butterfly. At first she'd thought it was the prospect of meeting Diane that was causing him to act this way, but now she's not so sure...

"Yes, I hope you don't mind," York says, glancing sideways. "You had more than enough officers for the job."

"Well, I suppose they wouldn't be doing much except sitting around taking up space at the station anyway," George agrees, further cementing Emily's amazement. Then he adds casually, "Did she say anything to you?"

"About what?"

"Anything that might be related to the case. We've spoken to her before, both her and her boyfriend Quint Dunn, but neither of them divulged anything of importance. I thought maybe you'd managed to wrangle something out of her with your slick FBI interrogation techniques."

"Well, she was Anna's friend, that much you probably know. Other than that, she just seemed sick and scared. Perfectly natural behavior under the circumstances, especially since she's living all by herself out there."

He doesn't seem inclined to go into very much detail, so the subject is dropped. A few minutes pass, then York says reflectively, "Muses Gallery. Interesting name. Did Diane pick it herself?"

"I don't know," Emily says. "Muses... Weren't they from some ancient story?"

"They were the nine daughters of Zeus and the goddess of memory, Mnemosyne. They symbolized artistic inspiration in divine form, according to Greek mythology."

York and Emily look at him. George scowls. "What? It's a fascinating subject, mythology, even though most of it isn't worth bringing up in normal conversation."

"That covers the name of the building, but what about its contents?" York turns to George with a faint smile on his lips. "Don't tell me you're an art critic as well as a historian of antiquity."

George strokes his moustache, hesitates before replying. "Actually, I stop by the Gallery quite often. I find it very relaxing, just to go and be surrounded by paintings all day. ...Emily, I can hear you trying not to laugh. What's so funny, exactly?"

"I'm sorry, George. I didn't know you were into that sort of thing."

"Well, don't be too surprised. I'm just as cultured as everyone else, you know."

"Don't get upset! I've hardly been to the Gallery myself. I just didn't know that about you, after all this time."

"Some people have sides to them that you'd never expect," York intones gravely, eyes on the road. The Gallery comes into view, looking somehow more imposing than ever against the pale skies and stark treeline. Cream-colored trim divides dark cherry-colored wood, the peaks of its gables towering above deep archways and slender columns. York parks, and the three get out of the car, gazing up at the building's handsome exterior.

"Looks more like a mansion than an art gallery," York observes. George nods in confirmation.

"Used to be. Diane liked the building so much, she had it converted. The outside's the same, but she had the whole interior torn out and reburbished."

York whistles. "Whew. You weren't kidding when you said she was loaded, then..."

Tastefully framed by blue-green shrubbery, a wooden sign to the right of the front steps announces MUSES GALLERY in engraved letters. They look at it with fresh understanding, but Emily can't help but feel irritated. She sniffs, "It's just like Diane to name it that way".

"Sounds like she's quite the scholar," York suggests.

"Maybe. She definitely acts the part."

"I sense by your reaction that this Diane is not popular among other women," York says, without a smile to indicate he might be joking. She frowns as George looks away, as if his attention has been caught by a squirrel on the other side of the parking lot.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Exactly what it sounds like, Emily. Is she attractive? Do you... appreciate her looks?"

Emily decides to try and play the game this time. "You're asking me if I find another woman physically appealing, is that it?" she says, crossing her arms. George starts clearing his throat, loudly. York ignores him.

"I'm just wondering if you're aware of the response she probably elicits in members of the opposite sex. You mentioned she's the sort of woman who would wear high heels to the ends of the earth and back. How does that make you feel?"

"That has nothing to do with it. She just seems to look down her nose at people. Always has. I'm not fond of that attitude, and you probably won't be either."

"That's probably because sexual magnetism probably has no effect on you. Am I right?"

George's throat-clearing turns into a full-blown coughing fit. Emily feels herself slipping, but is determined to play this to the end.

"I can't decide if you're out of line, or walking it. Either way, you're on thin ice, Agent York."

"And you, Deputy Emily, are mixing your metaphors," York replies, with that casual ease that she finds so provoking. "Anyway, I'm sorry if you thought I was poking fun at you. You just reacted so strongly to Diane's name that I figured there had to be some kind of tension going on below the surface. The only question was whether it was a general sort of frustration, the kind all women have against each other, or a more specific dislike-"

"Can we please drop this conversation?" Emily says desperately, deciding she's not yet ready to go head to head against the master of misdirection. "Diane's probably watching us from her office window, wondering why we're standing out here arguing."

"Good! Maybe you two can distract her while I catch her off guard. Sometimes I find that's the best way to approach a possible suspect."

"First of all, Diane may get under my skin, but even I wouldn't go as far as to call her a suspect. Second, you make it sound like we're planning to corner a wild animal with a net or something. Third-"

"-Don't tell me you're planning to leave us out in the lurch again, Agent Morgan," George finishes, some of the old obstinance creeping back into his voice. "You trying to say you still don't trust us?"

"Actually, there's a slightly different reason this time. You see, I always take the important meetings one-on-one. Interrogations, especially the informal ones, require a carefully balanced dynamic between the questioner and the subject. In fact, the subject shouldn't even know they're being interrogated."

"Agent Morgan..."

York holds up a hand. "In order to achieve such a balance, it's important that I do it alone. It's difficult for me to sense the subject's subtle reactions when there's too many variables cluttering things up with background noise."

"So I'm a variable and she's noise, is that it? And I thought this time was going to be different." George sounds genuinely disappointed. He waves his hand, resumes his gruff tone. "Well, go on then. You aren't going to listen to us anyway, are you?"

York looks inordinately pleased. "You're finally starting to understand me, George. Well, I'll see you two in a bit. Bye!"

And with that, York hops up the steps and disappears behind the thick oak doors, leaving George and Emily to shuffle awkwardly in the shade.

"Well, at least it's not raining out this time," Emily says, trying as usual to look on the bright side of things. George snorts.

"Yeah, thank God for small favors." He turns and walks back out into the sparse sunshine, hands in his pockets. Even though his back is straight, his head held high, Emily knows her boss well enough to sense when he's dejected. She follows him and they both lean on the hood of the police cruiser, looking up at the gallery with its large dark window panes and solemn facade. After a while, George breaks the silence.

"Maybe it would be better if we stopped expecting him to change all the time."

Emily looks surprised. She agrees, of course, but she'd thought it would be at least a full week before George started warming up to Agent York.

"I think so... It would help speed up the investigation, that's for sure. But I'm curious; what brought on this sudden change of heart? Watching you two argue for the first couple of days was like that old saying, 'unstoppable force meets immovable object'. I thought it would never end!"

"You were that worried about us, huh?" George adjusts the brim of his hat, thin lips twisted in a half-smile. "You can stop fretting about it, Emily. I don't have the energy to keep pressing him, and he's already made his position clear."

"It still doesn't give him the right to treat you like that."

"Are you trying to set us up for another fight? And here I thought you were the diplomatic one."

Emily feels her face reddening. "No! Of course, it's... I just want everyone to get along, without resentment. I mean, I get ticked off sometimes too, but it seems so selfish to be bickering when someone's just been killed. I can't believe it myself, sometimes... It's like I'm having a bad dream, and I want someone to pinch me to wake me up."

George takes a deep breath, leaning back until he's staring straight up into the featureless grey sky. Then he says, quietly, "So you want to know why I'm being so nice to Agent Morgan today."

"It did cross my mind as unusual, yes," Emily says, watching him closely. "I mean, it seemed to happen overnight."

"That's because it did. Agent Morgan stopped by my house last night, must've been right after leaving Becky's. It was a very strange encounter; I'm not used to having visitors so late in the evening... But what he did then made me believe that, no matter how annoying he gets, it's not personal. He's only doing it for the sake of the job. And I can respect that, in any man."

He shifts position on the hood, Emily feeling the cruiser bob slightly beneath her. After a few seconds of rummaging, he produces a small, white object from his jacket pocket. He holds it out to her, saying, "Careful, it's delicate."

Emily turns it over, curious. It's a wilted flower, its petals slightly crushed and barely clinging to the stem. If she saw it growing by the side of the road, she wouldn't give it another thought; but something about it, a certain translucent quality, holds her attention. Still, she does not understand what this has to do with Agent York, and says so.

"I guess the connection isn't that obvious," George says with a faint quirk of his moustache, taking the flower from her fingers. "I'll tell you what happened, though. It's not that long a story."

Emily glances over at the gallery's front entrance, at the large double doors through which Agent York had disappeared with hardly a warning. She sighs, makes herself comfortable on the cruiser's hood.

"I think I've got time for a story, George. Besides, it's not like we've got anything else better to do..."

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	40. chapter 37: Tree Appreciation

In which York gets cultural.

* * *

******CHAPTER 37: TREE APPRECIATION**

**TIME AND LOCATION: 9:15, Muses Gallery****  
****WEATHER REPORT: Slightly overcast  
FORTUNE: "For once, your limited knowledge of French comes in handy."**

"Hello... Hello? Is there anybody here?"

My voice echoes through the dimly lit lobby, bouncing off the polished marble floor and the thick banisters of two staircases that soar up to a second level high above. Columns of black stone, or some material made to look like stone, ascend from floor to ceiling, giving the impression that the gallery is somehow bigger on the inside than it is on the outside. Just as George said, there is definitely more than a hint of ancient Greece influencing the interior design of this place. Everything is as cool, clean, and as built to impress as the temples of the gods must have been, thousands of years ago. The only light comes from the tastefully diffused glow of electric lanterns placed here and there, as well as the small pools of illumination under each of the paintings hanging on the walls. I'm not close enough to any of them to really scrutinize, but the current exhibit seems to be focused on landscapes. Forests, to be exact. The familiar patterns of trunks and leaves, all sorts of colors, as far as the eye can see.

And dominating the central space, dead ahead in the area formed by the curve of the two stairwells, towers a massive sculpture of indescribable proportions. It's made of some brassy metal that causes what little light there is to pool sinuously over its smooth surface, reflecting various subtle shades of dark reddish-gold and coppery gray-greens. Its irregular shape is both organic and mechanical at the same time, resembling nothing so much as a huge tree that's been blasted by some alien force so that its branches stick out like the arms of a crucified person, the two thickest appendages raised to the heavens in motionless supplication. I follow it with my eyes downwards to its tapering point, and realize the entire thing's been suspended about a foot off the ground, the wires holding it up rendered nearly invisible in the dimness. And with the floor directly beneath it polished to an almost fanatical degree, the sculpture's reflection acts as its upside-down twin, giving me the disconcerting feeling that I'm standing on the surface of a pool of luminous water.

...I know Modern art's not really our thing, Zach. But you don't have to like it to admire it for making a statement. No, I don't know what it's trying to say, either. That's beside the point! It's supposed to be meaningless and abstract... I think. Which makes it stand out all the more, a bold metallic monster surrounded by these subdued, realistically rendered oil paintings.

Hold on. What's that sound? Someone's opening a door in that alcove over there... If it's Diane, maybe we can ask her what the deal is with her gallery's centerpiece. I walk over to see a shadowy figure slipping quietly into the lobby, then going over to stand under a large canvas on which five spindly birches stand vertically against a smoldering sunset. Whoever it is heaves a despondent sigh; it's a woman. She doesn't seem to notice me until I say her name, upon realizing who it is.

"Hello, Olivia. I see you like art as well?"

The diner owner emits a muffled shriek, jerking around to face me with wide, staring eyes. Then she relaxes, relatively speaking. She's still wound tighter than one of our dream world clocks.

"Oh, Agent York, it's just you! You startled me so," she says, putting a hand to her breast. "I'm sorry, did you ask me something?"

"I just wanted to know if you were an art lover too."

"W-why, yes, of course! I mean... I like trees." She stutters, and trails away uncertainly. I try to think of something to say that won't send her running off like a frightened doe.

"I see... Yes, of course. These are indeed paintings of trees." I nod, and look thoughtful. Olivia just seems even more nervous.

Well, Zach, so much for that idea. It's situations like this that make me think Emily would come in handy. She and Olivia seem to be friends; Emily's presence might have eased her state of mind.

"Ahem... So, do you come here often, Olivia?"

"Ah, no, not really. Excuse me, I really must get back to the diner..."

She turns and practically runs out the door, just like a scared deer. Oh well, Zach, you can't win 'em all. But we did learn something about our Olivia Cormack... We learned that she has something to lie about, some piece of information she's protecting from us. You've noted how she said "trees", not "paintings of trees"... A minor semantic distinction to most, but to an expert profiler, it's as big as the Grand Canyon. There are tons of trees outside, but she chose to come all the way to the art gallery to see them instead. "_Ceci n'est pas une arbre,_" as they say.

...Of course I know what it means, Zach. We both saw that Magritte exhibit in Chicago, during the case with the blue men and the missing feet. Now _that_ was a crazy assignment. It was only fitting that the stage be set with a crazy Belgian painter's crazy artwork. My personal favorite was the steam locomotive stuck inside the fireplace. It's a unique way to give the impression of time stopping, a subjective process occurring in the mind rather than reality. Like something that would happen in a dream.

Which was your favorite, Zach? I recall you really liking the one of the man with his face hidden behind a green apple. Even after we caught the bad guys, you still wanted to go back to look at that painting. We ended up staying an extra day because of it...

"Like I said, there's no point in you having this!"

More voices! Faint, but still audible. Someone must really be making a racket. I skirt the dangerously sharp points of the sculpture and hurry towards the large wooden doors on the other side. Once there, I slow my approach, listening carefully. The same voice from before, female and dark with rage, continues shouting.

"I can put it to far better use! I'm taking it with me, end of story!"

A brief clatter, followed by a rustling sound. Another voice speaks, this one low and insinuating. Too quiet to make out the exact words, but it sounds like amused acquiescence.

Suddenly, footsteps, getting louder. I manage to jump back just in time to avoid getting hit with the door as it's slammed open, Carol MacLaine barreling through with her eyes ablaze and lips twisted in magnificent anger-

We stop and stare at each other for a moment. My hands are raised in automatic surrender, so heated is the glare she gives me, but then she whirls away in a blur of black leather and copper hair. We can hear her stomping all the way out to the front entrance and beyond. Emily and George are going to think there's a parade of upset women going on inside the gallery.

What do you think, Zach? Could it be that time of the month, or something more serious?

The unseen second woman's voice floats out of the open door from somewhere in the room beyond. It's so soft that I shouldn't be able to make out what she's saying, but somehow I catch every single word. An image of her starts to form in my head before I even see her, the lost puzzle piece coming slowly into view along with that silky smooth voice.

"The Agent from the Bureau, right? Just a moment, please. I'll be right with you."

And, true to her word, a moment later and Diane Ames is with us. In the flesh.

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	41. chapter 38: Nameless Flower

In which Agent Morgan makes an appearance.

This flashback was absurdly fun to write. All the men in this game are basically little kids. I kept accidentally writing "York" though, it's hard to think of him any other way.

* * *

**CHAPTER 38: NAMELESS FLOWER**

**Day 3****  
****TIME AND LOCATION: 20:37, George's house****  
****WEATHER REPORT: Heavy showers continuing overnight  
FORTUNE: "A flower without a name would smell just as sweet."**

_There's a slight movement behind the window blinds in the front room, and George goes to investigate. Someone is standing on the steps in the pouring rain, fiddling with something to one side of the door. George debates with himself as to whether he should open it; it's just after the funeral, and he's still feeling a little raw. His unwelcome visitor shows no signs of leaving, however, so George finally opens the door to confront them directly. He makes sure the crack is just wide enough to peer outside; he is a man who values his privacy, and he has no intention of letting anyone, without exception, come into his fortress of solitude. Still, his wariness turns to shock mingled with horror when he sees who is standing there._

_ "You! What are you doing here?"_

_ Agent Morgan shifts his attention from the button which he'd been futilely engaged in pressing, and stands up straight to face George proper. He's also wearing what appears to be a black garbage bag over his suit. It doesn't seem to have helped much; Morgan's face is already shellacked with rainwater. He wipes his eyes and grins._

_ "Hello, George. Nice weather in Greenvale, isn't it? By the way, your doorbell is broken. I was just about to knock when you answered, almost as if we were on some kind of telepathic wavelength-"_

_ George groans and leans his head on the doorjamb. "Agent Morgan, it's getting late. What do you want?"_

_ Morgan seems to ponder for a moment. Then he brightens. "Which do you like better, mustard or hot sauce?"_

_ A vein in George's forehead starts to throb steadily. "I hope you didn't drive all the way out here just to ask me that."_

_ "I'm flattered by your concern, but don't worry about me. I just decided to stop by, that's all."_

_ "And then what? Did you want to go over something related to the case? Or are you just trying to waste more of my time?"_

_ "Hey, you still haven't answered my question! It's hardly fair, piling on three in a row like that."_

_ "That does it," George says, and starts to close the door. It seems to stick, and he looks down to see Morgan's hand tugging on the other side of the doorknob, preventing it from closing._

_ "Hold on a minute, George. I was just kidding. I didn't really come out here to ask you about condiment preference."_

_ Something in his tone makes George let go of the door, despite himself. He props himself against the frame, making sure his body is completely covering the entrance so that Morgan doesn't get any illusions about being invited inside. Eyebrows raised, he folds his arms and waits._

_ "Well?"_

_ "Simply speaking, George, I... thought you could use a friend who wasn't a dumbbell."_

_ George narrows his eyes, scans Morgan's face for signs of mockery, finds none. Morgan lets go of the door and stands with his hands by his sides, looking pale and vulnerable under the thin awning overhead. The snappy gestures and aggravating attitude that had characterized his first few days in Greenvale seem, for the moment, to be absent. And for a few seconds, men being men, neither of them seem to have any clue as to how to progress. _

_ Surprising both of them, it's George who breaks the silence first._

_ "She's sick."_

_ "Who is?"_

_ "My mother."_

_ "I'm sorry," Morgan says, sounding like he means it. "Is there anything I can do to help?"_

_ "Not really, no... I'm afraid she's the reason I can't let you in. She's in pretty serious condition, but not the kind that can be helped by doctors. Just a lot of bed rest and, you know, attention from me. That sort of thing. We don't really have any other relatives to count on, so it's just me taking care of her, for the most part."_

_ "I understand. She's very lucky to have a son like you."_

_ George still doesn't fully understand what exactly has changed between himself and Agent Morgan, only that something has indeed changed. He decides to act on it, ignoring for once the knee-jerk reaction to put himself behind the wall, to cover any trace of emotion from outsiders._

_ "You know, I try to help her cope as best I can, but there's still one thing I haven't been able to do for her. I don't know if you can understand it, the pain of having to choose between your job and someone you love, but it's something I find myself facing almost every day. You see..."_

_ He pauses to recollect his thoughts, then plunges onwards. "You see, there's this little white flower. Only blooms when it's raining out. Doesn't have a name, either, so far as I know; most people'd probably consider it a weed." He describes it briefly, then says, "Anyway, she said that flower represented something very special to her, from long ago... Her memory's not so good now, but she seems to recall it very well. She said she'd give anything to see it again."_

_ Agent Morgan is quiet, staring off into the middle distance. Somehow George knows he's listening intently, so he adds, "As you can probably guess, that story has no ending. I've never seen such a flower, and neither has anyone else I've talked to. I've only ever heard my mother describe it, so who knows?" He shrugs. "It might not even exist."_

_ "Don't say that!" Morgan's voice has an unexpected edge to it. "If you want your mother's wish to be granted, you have to believe it'll happen too. There's no point in trying to live on false hope. A car can't run on water, you know."_

_ George tries to smile, can't quite make it. "Did your friend Zach tell you that? He must be full of little phrases of wisdom."_

_ "No, that one was mine, actually. I made it up on the spot. George, how late are you planning on staying up tonight?"_

_ "A couple more hours or so." George is mildly taken aback by this sudden tangent. "Why, what-"_

_ "All I needed to know. Give Mrs. Woodman my sincerest commiserations of good health, will you, George?" Agent Morgan calls over his shoulder, already halfway down the steps. As soon as he leaves the safety of the awning, the sheer wall of water outside envelopes him so completely that his body literally seems to disappear behind a curtain. A soggy "Thanks!" is heard, followed a moment later by the sound of a car engine starting up and fading away. In less than a minute, George is left alone with the sound of the falling rain._

_ He stands for a moment, letting his bemusement fade in the flickering porch light. Then he shakes his head, the forgotten smile coming more easily now, and shuts the door._

_ Two hours later and there's another sound from outside, a knocking on the door this time. George, in the basement, doesn't hear it right away, and emerges from the lower level of the house wondering how long the noise has been going on for. He opens the door and his confusion returns undiminished, as strong as the first time._

_ "Agent Morgan? What..."_

_ "I found it," Morgan pants, clearly out of breath. He couldn't be any more soaked if he had jumped into a swimming pool fully clothed. His garbage bag (which, George sees now, is in fact a waterproof poncho of some sort) is spattered with mud and bits of grass, a pattern that's repeated on the legs of his trousers from the knees down. There's a leaf stuck to his cheek, and also a twig resting absurdly on the very top of his head as if some bird had been planning to build a nest there but never got around to finishing it. _

_ George pries his eyes away and focuses on the thing Morgan is holding out to him in his left hand. His jaw drops._

_ "Is that... It can't be..."_

_ "Just take it. Your mother probably needs it sooner rather than later." Morgan's voice is returning to normal, and he's starting to sound like his old, pragmatic self. George takes the object from Morgan's hand and holds it up, almost forgetting to block the open doorway._

_ "The flower with no name. Just like she described it. Where did you..."_

_ "It took a bit of driving around and stopping at random intervals, but I finally found an abandoned farmhouse east of here that looked like it might house some uncommon plant life. I ran into a nearby shack to get out of the rain, and there it was, growing out the floorboards. Amazing, isn't it?"_

_ George says nothing, still staring at the tiny white specimen in the palm of his hand. Agent Morgan watches him with an expression denoting neither satisfaction nor the expectation of gratitude. He simply remarks, pointing a finger to the heavens, "Life is funny that way. It thrives in the strangest places. Though I suppose there's better examples out there, like those worms who live in volcanoes. But still, a flower that only blooms in the rain, whose name nobody remembers, in a derelict shack in small town America... There's something poetic about that kind of existence."_

_ "Yes... Excuse me one second, Agent Morgan."_

_ George goes back into the house and shuts the door, leaving Morgan standing on the steps outside. Almost fifteen minutes pass. By the time George returns, Morgan is sitting with his back against the porch railing, looking up at the skies obscured by rain and darkness. He turns his head when the door finally opens, his bedraggled appearance making him look like a prisoner whose freedom is imminent at last. But he smiles affably, and doesn't seem too perturbed about the wait._

_ "Welcome back! Zach and I thought you might have forgotten we were here."_

_ "I hope you didn't mind me leaving you out here like this," George apologizes. "I had to bring it to mother right away, but I wanted you to have something, too."_

_ Morgan stands up slowly, using the railing as support. "It's okay. Don't feel the need to thank me. I was feeling extra energetic tonight, for some reason. Maybe now I'll be able to get to sleep..."_

_ George shakes his head. "Just take it, ya damn fool," he growls, and holds his closed fist out towards Morgan. The agent raises his eyebrows as a pale, hard object falls into his palm, about the size of a sand dollar. He peers down at it, an awed expression crossing his face._

_ "Why, George... I almost don't know what to say."_

_ "That'd be a first. It's not just a rock, though. Look closer."_

_ Morgan holds it up in front of his face, in an almost exact re-enactment of George's scrutiny of the flower. His eyes widen._

_ "It's a fossil!"_

_ "Yeah." George looks slightly embarrassed. "I found it behind the house when I was a kid. Dug it up myself. Things were pretty bad at home, but it cheered me up every time I looked at it. I used to take it out of its box every day. Now that I'm an adult, I've grown out of that sort of thing... But maybe you can find some use for it."_

_ There's a quiet moment, Morgan tracing with his fingertip the slender skeleton of the fish-like creature that had once been trapped in the rock. Then, with the solemn earnestness of a twelve year-old, he says, "George, Zach and I both agree. This might be the most incredible thing I've ever seen."_

_ George isn't sure he should be laughing, but he does anyway. "Of all the cases you've been on, I'll bet you've seen more interesting sights than a dried-up fish. Now if you'll excuse me, it really is getting late. I've got to get some sleep, and you should, too. We've got a long day ahead of us."_

_ Agent Morgan slides the fossil into a plastic evidence bag with the reverence of a priest handling Holy Water. He looks at George and nods once, the seriousness in his eyes turning the action into a secret pact._

_ "Thank you, George. I'll treasure it always."_

_ "I'm sure you will," George says, the urge to escape blooming suddenly in his forethoughts. He brusquely says good-night and shuts the door tight this time, locking it behind him. He waits for a few moments, peering furtively out of the shuttered windows, making sure Morgan is gone. The agent is still standing out there, two fingers to his temple, his hand with the bagged fossil outstretched before him. He seems to be talking to someone, his lips forming silent syllables... Then, finally, he pockets the bag and turns and walks back out into the rain, his pace unhurried, as if the weather might as well be sunshine and rainbows for all the attention he's giving it. He gets into his borrowed police cruiser and pulls away, headlights quickly swallowed by the dark. And that_

is what happened the last time I saw him before this morning", George finishes. During the course of his tale, he'd slipped off the hood of the cruiser and began pacing around the parking lot, hands behind his back ,as is his habit. Emily is certain she hasn't heard her boss talk this much since the Christmas party, when everyone was a little drunk and loose-lipped. Right now, all she can think of to say is "That explains a lot."

"Believe me, I was just as surprised as you are now. I had no idea how to react for most of it."

Emily's laugh is a little more bitter than she'd intended. "You know, it was my secret plan to try and get you two to cooperate with each other, without either of you knowing it. But it turns out all it takes is a rock with a fish in it, and suddenly you guys are best friends." She throws up her hands in half-mocking exasperation. "Men! You're all crazy."

"Don't think like that, Emily. Of course you had your role to play. Besides, I still find his methods irritating as hell. No amount of flowers sent to my house is going to change that."

George offers her a rare smile, and Emily relents. She drops her arms and stares at the closed Gallery doors, wondering how much longer it's going to be.

"You think he's doing okay in there, by himself? Diane can be quite a handful..."

"I'm sure he's fine. Agent Morgan does not go in unarmed."

"Maybe their charms will cancel each other out."

"Now that I'd pay to see."

"Yeah, me too- Wait a minute. Isn't that Carol's ride parked over there?"

George turns to look at where Emily is pointing. At the same time, the Gallery doors slam open, and who should appear but the owner of the car herself...

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	42. chapter 39: Lady Diane

In which York gets framed and hung on a wall.

I think this was my favorite chapter to write so far. The power dynamics between York and Diane are unique in the game, Diane being probably one of the only characters equipped to duel him on the verbal battleground. It's a refreshing change of pace to write that kind of dialogue.

* * *

**CHAPTER 39: LADY DIANE**

**Day 4****  
****TIME AND LOCATION: 9:46, Muses Art Gallery****  
****WEATHER REPORT: Slightly overcast  
FORTUNE: "Fine art, like beauty, is in the eye of the beholder."**

"...So there's no way you could have been at the scene of the crime," York says, strolling into the next wing of the exhibit. The click-clack of high heels on polished marble lets him know she's following him. Her voice drifts over his shoulder from behind, inviting him to breath in her every word like cigarette smoke.

"That's right. I was drinking at the bar with Nick Cormack until early morning. I'm sure if you ask him about it, he'll say the same."

"Very well. I'll be sure to do that." York stops at the far wall and turns around, waiting for Diane to catch up. She stops too, and he feels her gaze on him, as methodically probing as a spider sizing up its freshly caught prey. Her eyes are the color of cool jade, and slightly narrowed, like a cat's. Her hair and clothes are styled in such a way that even the least fashion-conscious observer would know, instinctively, that whatever the current trend in such circles may be, Diane Ames is and always will be at their forefront. To most people in Greenvale, she gives the immediate impression of having been seen somewhere before; on a magazine cover perhaps, or being interviewed by Oprah on TV. The last thing anyone would suspect her of is being almost thirty years old, which she is. She has the seemingly immortal allure of a fifties Hollywood actress, balanced with the urban sophistication of the modern career woman.

Zach dislikes her almost immediately.

"I have a question about your... heated encounter with Carol just then."

"Ask away, Mr. Agent."

"Would you mind telling me what that was about?"

"Oh, who knows. Carol's always like that." Diane waves a graceful hand through the air. "She's got this irrational animosity towards me, always trying to draw me into her unpleasant little orbit..."

"Nobody does anything without reason," York counters. "Especially murder."

Diane's lips curve into a sardonic smile. York turns away to look at one of the paintings on the walls, an unsettling depiction of a copse of trees painted with such ferocity and vivid colors that it looks more like a forest fire than the site of a peaceful summer stroll. Even though he's not looking directly at her, he and Zach can feel her presence, a vibration in the air like a plucked string. She comes closer, stands next to him.

"Do you like this painting?" she asks him. Zach thinks it's an eyesore. Instead of responding directly to the question, York reads aloud the tiny plaque below the frame.

"'Wrathful Woods', by Madison Hart W. Materials: Oil. Painted in 1968." York straightens, puzzled. "Unusual for an artist to give only their first and middle names, leaving the surname an initial. Was she from around this area?"

"She lived and died here, yes," Diane says dismissively, brushing back an invisible strand of red-gold hair from her immaculate coiffure. "She was a local artist, if you could call someone an artist who'd only ever done two paintings in her whole life."

"Who was she?"

"I don't know. I bought this painting from Harry Stewart for my personal collection. He never told me, and I never asked. The art should speak for itself without the intrusion of personal information, don't you think?" The smile doesn't grow or shrink, but seems to be suggestive of something York can't quite identify. Under Zach's recommendation, he decides to ignore it.

"Going back to what you were saying earlier. What exactly was the purpose for Carol's visit? She seemed rather irate."

Diane laughs, a wonderful sound like crystal chimes ringing that for some reason make Zach think of the Wicked Witch of the West. He warns York to be on his guard. There is something dangerous about this woman, not physically threatening, but... Could someone be spiritually threatening? She's one of the few people in this town who could see right through us, he cautions. Be careful!

"Oh, Agent York. I _was_ answering your question, by asking a little question of my own. But you never answered me properly."

York hesitates, feeling Zach's alarm. "You wanted to know if I liked the painting."

"Yes, good boy. And do you?"

"Not especially. It's a little obvious for my tastes."

"What about this one?" She leads him over to another framed image, this one of sunlight playing through a lattice of golden leaves. He barely has time to register it before she goes on to the next, and the one after. "Or this?" She stops this time, waiting.

York looks it up and down. "Red tree," he says, softly. He feels the vibration that is Diane tremble more quickly, getting excited about something. "Yes," she breathes, as if in awe. "But you're not looking hard enough."

Zach sees it before York does: The clumps of leaves on the boughs of the tree are actually butterflies, hundreds of them clinging to bare branches, bright red wings seeming to flutter within the confines of the frame. As if they might come alive and fly towards him at any second. York leans back from it, letting it sink in; then realization dawns on him. He says, "Would you mind if we went back and looked at 'Wrathful Woods', Diane? I think I might have missed something."

"Of course," she says, sounding pleased, as if he'd passed a test. She follows him back to the first painting, with its thick strokes of burning oranges and reds and yellows, and watches as York frowns at it as if trying to solve a crossword puzzle without the help of a pencil. Then he points.

"There. And there, too. They're everywhere, but I didn't notice them the first time."

"Yes. And what are 'They'?"

"She's hidden faces in the flames. Or perhaps they're meant to be demons. The burning souls of the damned..."

"Good eye. You could be a gallery curator, yourself. But how does it make you feel, Agent York, now that you know the truth?" She leans closer, that smile, almost a sneer, lingering exquisitely on her lips. "Do you like it? Love it? Does it turn you on...?"

York gives Diane a cool look. "Personally? I could take it or leave it."

He can feel Zach's elation as the smile slides for a moment from Diane's face before she catches it. It re-asserts itself so quickly that nothing seems amiss, though her eyes are narrower than before.

"Well, it does take a certain amount of formal training to appreciate this kind of aesthetic," she says, all the honeyed intimation gone from her voice. "All I was trying to say, Agent York, is that things are not as they appear at first glance. I'm sure you already knew that by now, but I find these paintings to be excellent reminders... And a very good way to tell who, among those who enter this gallery, are truly lovers of art."

"I thought this was supposed to tell me something about why you and Carol were arguing."

"Hmm... You're a tough one to deter, aren't you? A one-track mind, that's all I ever see in men like you. Still, it can be stimulating, in the right sort of setting... I might as well say it up front, but I'm fairly certain Carol's upset because someone she liked ended up in my bedroom instead of hers."

"I see. That would explain things. And did you happen to be in the bedroom at the time this was happening?"

"Eventually. I like to keep them waiting, though. I find it increases the anticipation." She draws out the 'ss' sound of the final word, keeping it captive before letting it escape between perfect white teeth. "Did I answer your question, Agent? Or should I be a little more... obvious?"

"No, I think I've got the gist of it," York says absently. Zach is sending little impatient signals for them to wrap things up, before they get even more tangled in this woman's twisted little web. But York's curiosity gets the better of them, and his next question delays them even further.

"If you don't mind me asking, who was the lucky man?"

Diane gives him a vampiric look and spreads her arms, seeming to take in the entire Gallery with the expansiveness of the gesture. York and Zach get the feeling that she's put on this act before, perhaps in Seattle, where she'd had her last exhibit. All too easily can they can imagine her surrounded by the cultural elite, men in tuxedoes and women whose jeweled arms end in martini glasses, watching the elegant Lady Diane as she turns in place with her arms outstretched, head thrown back as if addressing the gods themselves.

"Take a look around you! I adore every painting that hangs on these walls, without reservation. I devour them with my eyes and they consume my soul. Do you think I remember any of the artists' names? Of course not! They are unimportant, bits of meaningless trivia that I use when I need to look important in front of others. But I honestly couldn't care less. It's the art that matters, the only thing that matters. The act of it. The scent of it. I can't get enough!"

"You're talking about sleeping with men," York says mildly. "And you don't even care enough to learn their names?"

"Of course not. I just told you, it's the art I'm interested in. Besides, who said anything about just men? " Diane laughs, sounding breathless. "You lawful types, always jumping to the most boring conclusions. Carol just happened to have her eye on a piece that I liked and ended up taking home with me first. It's a buyer's market."

"That's a rather cynical view of human relationships. I thought art lovers were more romantic." York is now beginning to feel what Zach has been feeling all along, a sort of slimy sensation whose origin he can't quite place. He stands still as Diane comes up to him once more, actually reaches out a hand and touches him, walking her crimson-painted fingernails up his tie, using the hearts as stepping stones. York gives her a thin smile.

"You're very forward."

"Would you rather I be... backward?"

"I don't think this is appropriate."

She laughs and pushes him away. "You're a piece of work yourself, FBI Special Agent. You see, I've already forgotten your name, but I know everything I need to know about you from a single glance. You probably don't appeal to everyone, but for those who can appreciate your unique style, you're worth more than the rest of them put together." Her tongue flicks out across her lips, almost involuntarily, like a snake. "How about it? I could frame you, give you your very own room in the Gallery... It'd be a special exhibit of one."

In that instant, York and Zach can see through her beauty as if it's become transparent, and it's like they're looking over the edge of a deep dark hole, at the bottom of which might be stars, or simply the glittering bones of past victims. Then the facade drops back down, and Diane is staring at York with her head to one side, those hauntingly lucid eyes seeming to pierce something inside him. But, and perhaps it's just Zach's influence, he's finding her remarkably easy to resist. He gives her a non-committal smile.

"You're not exactly the kind of woman a man like me should get involved with. We'd just wear each other down. Besides, I'm on the job. I don't have time for much in the way of cultural pursuits."

"Isn't that a shame?" Her lips pout. "I suppose it's this Anna thing everyone's been so depressed about. How dull! Is that what's got you so preoccupied that you can't come out to play?"

There's a long pause. Then York says quietly, "Diane, I'll be frank. Right now, you are not considered a suspect. But Zach and I are certainly feeling shaky about you. If you want to remain in the clear... Just watch yourself from now on."

Diane seems to be a good sport about it. She tips her head back, exposing more of that alabaster skin. Her eyes seem to flash momentarily.

"Ah, but there's one thing you still don't understand about us," she says huskily. "Artists and art-lovers... We love a good thrill. Goodbye, Agent York. You and your little friend."

She walks him to the door and waves as he steps outside. The sunlight feels warm on his face after the mausoleum chill of the Gallery. Zach thinks he hears the sound of wood crackling, and for one instant, the smell of smoke... Then the doors close behind them, and Emily is standing in the parking lot, waiting.

* * *

Check out Planet Redwood for more Deadly Premonition stuff! If you haven't visited the site in a while, there's a few new things you might want to check out:  
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	43. chapter 40: Adaptable Creatures

In which York and Emily drive somewhere. I dunno.

* * *

**CHAPTER 40: ADAPTABLE CREATURES  
****TIME AND LOCATION: 10:24, Muses Art Gallery****  
****WEATHER REPORT: Slightly overcast  
FORTUNE: "A moving car is a vessel for speculation."**

"Where's George?" Agent York trots down the steps towards her, straightening his tie. "I have a new lead. We should follow up on it right away."

"He caught a ride back to the station with Carol. It's on the way to her apartment, so she said she'd drop him off."

Emily doesn't tell him about the strangeness of the encounter, as it's really none of her business. But there had been something in Carol's eyes, almost like fear, when she'd caught sight of them after coming out of the Gallery. Even a rookie cop would have been able to sense that she was hiding something from the police. She and George had glanced at each other with knowing eyes, and that's when George had, very politely, asked if Carol could give him a lift, as he'd already wasted enough time waiting around here when he could be doing something productive. Throughout his explanation, Carol just kept nodding her head, staring blankly over his left shoulder, and bunching her hands into fists visible through the tight outlines in the pockets of her leather jacket. When he'd finished, she said, very quietly, with a tremble in her voice, one word- "Fine"- and then they'd gotten into her loud, sporty convertible and torn out of the parking lot as if pursued by a horde of demons.

Emily is still not sure what to make of it, but the clever ruthlessness of George's gambit impresses her. To corner someone in order to question them, under the pretense of accepting some small town charity, is something she'd never be able to pull off. The idea of Carol being a suspect is also hard to believe, but only because of her relationship with Thomas; perhaps she's been getting up to things which even her Deputy brother is unaware of. In fact, it could be their very closeness to each other that has prevented Thomas from seeing the truth about his sister...

She shakes her head. No, there are enough cynics in law enforcement without her becoming one too. She must be strong... but not hard. No matter what her father says.

York faces her at the police cruiser, all business. "Well, at any rate, I had a chat with Lady Diane. She said she was at the bar drinking with Nick Cormack at the time of the murder. We can corroborate her story right now, if we head to the diner."

"Really, is that all she said? You were in there for nearly half an hour."

York gets into the car and Emily follows suit. "She tends to circle around what she wants to say, instead of getting right to the point. Not an uncommon trait in artists, I find."

"I honestly haven't held a conversation with her long enough to see if she ever had a point." Emily buckles up and waits for York to pull out of the parking lot. But he just sits there, staring through the passenger window at something high up the Gallery walls. He reaches an arm past her and points upwards.

"Who's that? Up there, in the second storey window. Third from the left."

Emily cranes her head to look. "It's... Forrest Kaysen. And there's Diane, coming into the room." Odd pair, she thinks, watching the huge, pear-shaped silhouette looming over the slender figure of the gallery owner as they move behind the glass. York glances at her sharply.

"You know Forrest Kaysen?"  
"Sure. The sapling guy? He always uses strange analogies when he talks. I haven't spoken to him much, but..."

"What does he do when he comes to town?"

Emily gets flustered at the intensity of the questions. "He's a salesman, so I guess he... sells things? We haven't been getting many tourists lately, but he comes around pretty often. I think he treats it more like a vacation than a business trip."

"Is that all?"

"Um... Actually, there is one other thing. He's quite close friends with the Ingrams, especially the twins. Isaach and Isaiah? You could ask them about Kaysen."

York looks around, the car keys still untouched in the ignition. "I don't see his ride anywhere. I just saw him back at the hotel, and I'm pretty sure his is the only orange truck in town with a doghouse in the back."

"I don't know. Maybe there's another entrance around back that he uses. Why, what's wrong?"

York doesn't answer her right away, appearing deep in thought. She thinks she sees his lips move, once; then he reaches out and turns the ignition. The gray parking lot swirls around them as they head for the main road, the dark bulk of the Gallery receding behind them until it's obscured by trees.

"I'm sorry I had to leave you behind like that," York says to her, eyes flicking up to the rearview mirror as if she's still in the backseat rather than sitting right next to him. "Stuck in a parking lot with George for a whole thirty minutes! I'll bet you get enough of him as it is, being the Deputy and all. It must be suffocating sometimes."

Emily snorts. "We're not joined at the hip or anything. Besides, I got used to him..."

"Impressive! Women are very adaptable creatures."

"It's not like that! I mean, it's my job, and you have to learn to get along with the people you work with. Besides..." To her alarm, she finds herself going beyond the limit of what she'd been prepared to tell Agent York. "He might be stubborn and hard-headed sometimes, sure, but he's a hard-working man. He's... decent. That's why I... Why the townsfolk trust him so much."

"Decent. Quite a word. I don't hear it very often, where I come from."

"Well, that's George for you," Emily says, relieved that he doesn't seem to have caught on to her little slip-up. "He's not some hot-shot FBI agent."

"Now what's that supposed to mean?" York slows around a curve, then takes off down the strait as if to make up for lost time. "You're saying city folk can't be trusted?"

"It's just that in places like this, everyone knows everyone else. You can hardly blame some of them for acting... Well..."

"Yes, I know. Every time I run into Jim Green, he acts like I've cut down one of his precious trees with an axe."

"But you would never do something like that, right?"

"Only if the tree committed a murder and had to be taken to jail," York says, almost too stoically. "Anyway, I suppose you're right about George. Under that tough exterior, he's probably just as human as the rest of us."

"Well, didn't you stop by his house yesterday? I'm sure you felt it then," Emily says, after a short internal battle over whether to bring it up. She's decided to be tactful, not revealing everything she knows all at once. It's like practice, she thinks. Honing her interrogation skills.

"Did he tell you all about it?" York's voice is casual, but there's a slight frown mark between his eyes. She can't tell if it's because he's annoyed that George let slip the visit, which he may have intended to be private, or because he's thinking about something else related to the case. She replies, with an equally off-hand tone, "No, he just kind of mentioned it in passing. Said he was glad for the company after the funeral. Everyone was feeling a little down, I imagine. It was nice of you to go over there."

"Oh." The frown line is gone, but he remains silent. Emily can't help but notice the almost robotic precision of York's driving posture, a perfect 9-3 'o clock positioning of his hands on the steering wheel, eyes hardly straying from the road or the mirrors. All this despite his tendency to push the speed limit a little to close to the edge for comfort; but then, Emily has always been a slow driver.

"Did you know his mother is sick?" York asks abruptly.

"Yes, unfortunately. She's been that way ever since I moved here. I've never even seen her out and about, come to think of it. Apparently she's severely bed-ridden and can't go outside."

"That's a shame. I imagine it must be difficult. I certainly wouldn't know what to do in those circumstances, especially with my job requiring me to travel all the time."

Emily is unsure what this might suggest about Agent York's family. Obviously he doesn't have anyone close to him who require special attention... Which could mean his family is fine and healthy, or something more troubling. She tries not to think about it; she's always been leery of intruding into people's personal lives. It's a habit of her father's that she finds especially grotesque, his constant badgering of her for sordid details of the criminals she apprehends bordering on the obscene. There's a difference between being observant, and being a busybody.

So intent is her concentration on such matters that she doesn't hear Agent York's next question, and he has to repeat himself. Buildings are starting to flash past their windows, meaning they've entered town once more.

"How about you and Anna? Were you two close?"

"No, not really... I don't seem to have much in common with teenagers nowadays." Emily is surprised at the pang of regret brought on by speaking these words. She's always thought of herself as having reached that apex of maturity, where the golden days of youth no longer seem like a place one ought to linger, the point where you decide once and for all you have to move ahead with your life and become an adult. But sitting here in the car, watching the same buildings she grew up around passing her by, she realizes that as long as Greenvale remains, that part of her will never change. Even if she went away and never came back, if there are still old farmhouses where kids can sneak out to smoke marijuana, a convenience store with more kinds of fishing tackle than candy bars, and a crazy old woman with a cooking pot who seems to be everywhere at once, she'll always remember those days with fondness. Even if she'd rather jump in the lake stark naked than have to go through another toenail-painting sleepover.

"Things do change, from when you're a teenager," York says, contemplating. "Being in your twenties feels like a whole other world."

"I'll bet it changes again, when you're in your thirties," Emily says, a little teasingly. "But you'd know better than me, Agent York."

"Would I? Come now, Emily. It's not age that matters, it's how you feel on the inside that counts. Youthful spirit and all that."

"You're telling me you have a youthful spirit? What a load of-"

"Perhaps." York nods seriously. "And judging by your tone, you have the looks of an attractive young woman, and the soul of an old, bitter crone."

"Hey, now cut that out!" Emily laughs and has to refrain from punching him in the arm, the way she does to George on their more carefree nights out at the bar. They haven't had one of those in a while... She wonders how Agent York would react. George's response is usually to just shrug it off and keep drinking; York, on the other hand, city mouse that he is, probably isn't used to such admittedly crude expressions of camaraderie. She can imagine all too well the pained expression he would probably give her, his complete lack of understanding, and she almost breaks into laughter again.

"You seem awfully giddy all of a sudden." His voice sobers her. He's slowing the car down, the A&G Diner just up ahead. "You remember why we're here, right?"

"Of course I do, don't be silly. We're going to ask Nick if he and Diane were really at the Galaxy of Terror the night Anna was killed."

"How did you know which bar it was? I don't think I mentioned it."

"Elementary, my dear York." Emily gets out of the parked car and leans on the hood, grinning past the sirens at York as he steps out onto the pavement. "Can you really imagine Diane Ames at the SWERY65? Those high-heels of hers crunching on peanut shells, having to shout above the noise of the pool players, throwing back a beer while loud music blares from the jukebox..."

"Point taken. But, don't forget, Diane's alibi isn't the only reason we're here."

"Oh?" Emily asks, knowing she's been duped again into letting him have the last word. "What am I forgetting?"

"Nick's _fantastic _macaroni salad. I had it the last time we were here and one bowl definitely wasn't enough."

"How could I forget?" Emily sighs, but it's too late. Agent York has already slipped inside the diner, as if she hadn't been there at all. Well, she thinks to herself, pushing off the cruiser and ambling to the door, it was nice while it lasted. For once, she'd been fully inside his sphere of awareness. And to her surprise, it wasn't nearly as unpleasant or difficult to navigate as she'd thought.

Either I'm getting better at this, she thinks, or he's learning to open up...

* * *

Four more days until DP hits the UK... in the coffee!


	44. chapter 41: Sinner's Sandwich

In which the moment you've all been waiting for arrives... Yes, it's sammich time.

* * *

**CHAPTER 41: SINNER'S SANDWICH**

**TIME AND LOCATION: 10:50, A&G Diner****  
****WEATHER REPORT: Slightly overcast  
FORTUNE: "Bad intuition is a recipe for poor FBI agents."**

Olivia looks up like an excited puppy as we step into the diner. They really must be starved for guests, Zach. The place is practically empty, just like the last time, except for the hulking figure slouched in a booth on the far side of the door. I take a closer look; why, if it isn't our friend the Raging Bull! I never would have thought Jack's palate would be up to the task of differentiating the subtleties of Nick's cuisine from the coarse and greasy fare he is no doubt used to consuming, but I suppose even he gets tired of gas station burgers and potato chips once in a while. And something tells me his wife Gina isn't exactly up to the task of cooking a fine meal for him every night, either.

I casually walk over to say hi to Olivia, and we carry on a polite bit of small talk while Emily joins us at the counter. In the corner of my eye, I see Jack staring at us, and eventually he throws down a handful of change and leaves the booth, glowering at us as he passes on his way out the door. We'll pretend we didn't see him, but his behavior has been duly noted.

At the same time, I'm aware of the current focus of our investigation, Nick Cormack, as he busies himself in the kitchen, apparently unaware of our presence. He doesn't appear suspicious, but he may be as good an actor as he is a chef. Somehow I doubt it, though; we can't forget how evasive he was when we talked to him at the Community Center. But he can wait. He's not going anywhere.

Meanwhile, Zach, I do believe it's lunchtime.

"Let me have your special for today, Olivia," I say, my rumbling stomach reminding me that most of our breakfast this morning went into Forrest Kaysen's gullet. "And a cup of coffee. As fresh as you can make it."

"Our special?" Olivia asks. "That would be the turkey and gravy sandwich, with your choice of salad or fries."

"Make it both. Charge me full price if you have to."

Olivia giggles. She doesn't seem to remember our encounter at the Gallery at all, or else she's hiding it.

"Why, Mr. Agent, I wouldn't dream of doing such a thing! I'm just flattered that you stopped by again. And you brought Deputy Wyatt with you, too! This is making my day!"

I look over at Emily, who smiles tolerantly at Olivia's enthusiasm. "You should eat something too, Emily," I tell her, tapping the laminated menu in front of her. "It'll be on the Bureau."

Is she so bereft of normal human company, being stuck in that dingy police station all day, that even being treated to a simple meal would cause her to give me such a look of pleasant surprise? She looks back down at the menu, but the speed of her answer makes it obvious she had something in mind before reading it.

"Well, in that case... I'll go all out! One T-bone steak, Olivia. All the fixings." She's blushing a little as she lowers her voice and confides, "I usually can't afford to order it, but if the FBI is footing the bill..."

Olivia opens her mouth to say something, but then she stops and looks over our shoulder. The door opens, and I hear the sound of a wheelchair being pushed over the black and white checkerboard tiles. Emily and I swivel in our seats as the richest man in Greenvale approaches us, Michael Tillotson in tow, and stops at the counter a few feet away. He sits there like an idling car, waiting. Tillotson's voice rings out over his head:

"_Mrs. Olivia Cormack, the time it has come  
For he who gains sustenance from every last crumb  
To partake in that ritual that occurs upon noon  
Which does not involve the use of a spoon._"

Well, Zach, at the very least, you can't accuse our Michael Tillotson of unoriginality in his lyrics. Olivia shoots us a brief apologetic look before rushing over to deal with the new arrivals. If the sight of two people in the diner was enough to make her day, four should double her elation, right? But she looks more nervous than excited. Even in broad daylight, Stewart's gas-masked countenance would be enough to give anyone pause.

"Does he come here often?" I whisper to Emily.

"Every day. Always at noon, eleven 'o clock. Olivia told me so."

"Shouldn't she be used to this by now?" I watch the diner owner conversing with the two well-dressed oddballs- although "conversing" is probably an overstatement. After a single sentence exchange, Olivia nods and rushes off to the kitchen. Emily leans closer and says under her breath, "Tillotson has a different rhyme every time they come in. For some reason it always seems to throw her off. I don't blame her, though... Even just looking at them gives me chills."

"I see..."

Makes sense, Zach. Even the smallest shift in an established pattern can disrupt a fragile psyche. Olivia comes back with something on a white plate, which she sets down in front of the aide with an attempt at a cheery smile.

"There you go! One turkey, strawberry jam and cereal sandwich," she says, some of the brightness returning to her voice. Tillotson thanks her with a thin-lipped smile and a bow, then he takes the plate and wheels Mr. Stewart over to a side booth. I turn back to Emily, a theory having sprang up in my mind after witnessing this latest development.

"Sounds like the Sinner's Sandwich."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Self-inflicted punishment to atone for past sins... He's setting an example."

"I don't think I quite follow your meaning."

"It's a form of penance," I try to explain to her. "Like the monks of old, whipping themselves on the back, except in food form. It's an almost masochistic act, but instead of receiving pleasure from suffering, one is able to achieve a sort of salvation-"

"Mr. Francis York Morgan?"

This time the voice comes from almost directly behind us. It's Tillotson again. He must have the bearing of a cat, to be able to sneak up on us without detection. He gazes down at us with those expressionless eyes, giving off neither light nor warmth, like a pair of black holes. Brace yourself, Zach. I feel another poem coming on. And sure enough:

"_Let not appearance deceive you, nor its texture distract  
From the combination of flavor that lesser meals lack  
For though its ingredients may at first seem absurd  
In the end, you may find yourself eating your words._  
So says Mr. Stewart."

"You're saying I should try it myself before casting judgment, is that it?" I ask. Tillotson gives a perfunctory nod; Olivia and Emily look at him, then back at me, as if watching a slow-motion tennis match. I fold my arms and match Tillotson's cool stare. "No, that's fine. I've just ordered my own lunch, thank you."

He doesn't seem bothered by my stubbornness, instead turning to Harry Stewart whom he left over at the booth, the sandwich still lying untouched and uneaten on the table. The two seem to engage in some kind of telepathic exchange, Harry typing furiously on the slim electronic pad set into the arm of his chair while Tillotson nods at brief intervals. It's like watching the digital transfer of information on a computer screen, as if Harry is downloading his message directly into Tillotson's brain from across the room.

...That's a pretty bizarre thought, even for you, Zach, but I suppose there are some people in this world that deserve to have bizarre things thought about them. Finally the message is delivered, and Tillotson opens his mouth to intone:

"_Novelty frightens only those who would hide  
From the taste of enlightenment this sandwich provides.  
A delicacy prepared by Mr. Cormack himself  
With the kind of devotion one can't find on the shelf!_  
So says Mr. Stewart."

I think he's calling us out, Zach. Still, I hate being pushed around, especially when it comes to the food I eat. This time I look directly at Harry, bypassing the middleman altogether. If Tillotson is at all offended, which I doubt he is, not a trace of it flickers across that stony, immobile face.

"You're very persuasive, Harry," I say, unable to find evidence of his eyes behind the dark featureless circles of his mask. "Still, I have a hunch I might not like it. You're sure it's that good?"

The answer is shorter than I'd expected.

"_Make your choice by the rules to which you adhere  
But wise is the agent who swallows his fear._  
So says Mr. Stewart."

And with that, Tillotson bows politely and rejoins his master at his table. Emily and Olivia seem to let out the same breath they've been holding throughout this entire conversation. Even I feel a little like I've been had; he's good, that Harry, real good. But he must be at least twice our age, so he's probably had way more practice in the art of throwing people for a loop. We could definitely learn a trick or two from the old geezer... Maybe we should start speaking in rhymes, too?

"You don't have to listen to him, you know. Just because he's rich doesn't mean he can boss you around," Emily says to me. I shake my head.

"It's too late. He's planted the seeds of self-doubt in my head. And you don't know how difficult it is for most people to do that."

"Oh, I can imagine. You have such a thick skull," she jokes. At least I think she's joking.

"Still, I don't think I can back down from his challenge and still be able to sleep nights." I turn to Olivia and announce, "Olivia! I've changed my order. Let me have what Harry's having... But whatever you do, don't forget the coffee!"

Olivia unsuccessfully tries to hide her grin from us with her hand over her mouth. Her eyes are shining; this is probably the most entertaining day she's had since I was brought in unconscious that one time. "Yessir, Agent York!" she said, mock-formally, and practically skips towards the kitchen where her husband is working. She may be emotionally all over the place, but at least her ups seem to be as frequent as her downs. Some women are like a see-saw, Zach; and you never know which end you'll be stuck on when recess is over.

Ten minutes later, and I'm sitting at the counter, staring down at Harry's proposition. It's exactly how she described it: Thin slices of white turkey meat reclining on whole-wheat ciabatta bread, coated in a film of dark red jam with bits of strawberry suspended in it, topped off by a healthy handful of brown rice cereal. The composition of each ingredient is aesthetically pleasing- In fact I would rather see this sandwich framed and hung in the Muses Gallery over some of the paintings on display there- but the true test of a meal never lies in appearance alone. No, in order to understand Harry's message, we must consume it in its entirety... for sometimes the answer to life's riddles lies in a single crumb.

I pick up the sandwich in both hands, feeling the fresh bread give pleasantly against my fingers. I sniff it carefully; the succulence of the turkey is evident, as is the homemade nature of the jam. Finally, the moment of truth. Zach, be alert. There's no telling what might happen.

Emily, Olivia, Harry, the diner itself, all seem to disappear behind a fringe of white mist as I take my first bite. I chew for a few seconds, my mouth becoming my entire world. Shall I describe it to you, Zach? At first the jam sets the predominant tone, the initial sweetness of it overpowering, like the opening musical motif of Beethoven's fifth symphony. Combined with the crunchy texture of the cereal, it feels like a ruby supernova bursting against my tastebuds, a fireworks display of sugar and fruit... And like a fireworks display, it fades quickly, to be replaced almost at once by the rustic earthiness of the bread, grounding me to sepia-toned memories of bygone days... This feeling of warm nostalgia pours over me, golden brown, tinged with sadness... And like a long-lost lover, or the first rays of a new dawn, the taste of the turkey crests finally over the horizon, smooth and understated, then swelling, the tenderness of it obscuring everything else... Then finally, it all comes together, melding into a single perfect bouquet of flavor that somehow captures the essence of the sandwich as a complete entity while retaining each individual element's particular and irreducible virtues.

I find myself on my feet, staring in awe at the masterpiece clutched in my right hand. My skin is tingling all over, and I'm only half-aware of Emily and Olivia's presence, their pale faces hanging like twin moons in the twilight of food ecstasy into which I have descended. I come out of it by degrees, the haze slowly lifting... Zach, don't take this the wrong way, but forget all the women that have drifted through our lives and threatened to divide us. If ever there was a reason for you to be jealous of my corporeality, then this sandwich must surely be it.

"How... How was it?" Olivia's small voice is like a thin beam of light piercing the fog. I turn to her, holding aloft the sandwich, which in my present state seems to be emitting a radiant glow. Could this be what being under the influence of hallucinogenic drugs is like? No, it's more like a religious epiphany... The emotions swirling through my now could only be produced by a spiritual, not chemical, reaction.

"It was... fantastic," I say to her simply, for mere words cannot describe what I have just experienced. "When it comes to his profession, Nick wields his kitchen knife like the holy blade of an avenging angel."

"Um, I'll pass it on. But I'm so glad you liked it. Oh, your coffee's ready, by the way..."

Emily gives me look of utter incredulity as I take my seat at the counter, every one of my senses humming like the wires of an electrical tower. I must still have an expression on my face like one recently blessed by some kind of divine force- not too much of an overstatement, in this case- because she frowns in concern and says, "Earth to Agent York? That must have been a pretty good sandwich to make you float up to the ceiling and back down like that."

"Calling it 'pretty good' is like calling the Grand Canyon a pothole," I say, wondering if it's safe yet to take another bite. We still have the investigation to think of, after all; I can't risk clouding my mind for too long. You think Harry knew it would have this effect on me? At any rate, my intuition about its purging properties seems to have been accurate. My soul feels as fresh as a spring daisy. I hadn't noticed how much I'd needed it until that moment of attrition... But what sins could I be atoning for, Zach? Or could it simply be that our encounter with Diane Ames at the Gallery was more toxic than we'd thought?

I watch Emily digging into her steak, momentarily suffused by the strangest feeling of contentment. It might be the satisfaction of having met Harry's challenge and emerging victorious; it might be the afterglow from the Sinner's Sandwich itself; it might even just be the look of the sunlight as it streams through the windows, imbuing the red booths lining the diner with a certain hominess I hadn't recognized before. Whatever this sensation is, I feel it is not something meant to be shaken off lightly. Like a good meal, moments like these are meant to be savored...

* * *

Check out Planet Redwood for more Deadly Premonition stuff! Latest updates? Well, there's the whole Europe thing.

(remove *s)  
http:/*planetredwood.*webs.*com/


	45. chapter 42: Agent Punk Rocker

In which York discloses his deep dark past! No, not really.

* * *

**CHAPTER 42: AGENT PUNK ROCKER  
****TIME AND LOCATION: 11:29, A&G Diner****  
****WEATHER REPORT: Slightly overcast  
FORTUNE: "Reminiscing may provoke amusement from a peer."**

"Nick and Diane... They hardly make the perfect couple, do they?"

Emily puts down her knife and fork, the final few bites of her steak dinner still occupying her plate. Zach wonders if she's also the kind of woman who leaves an inch of milk in the carton just to have an excuse to put it back in the fridge instead of throwing it out. She cocks her head to one side and looks at York.

"Couple? How do you mean?"

"Is it widely known that they go out drinking together, just the two of them?"

"I think so. To be honest, I don't really pay attention to those kinds of things..." She shrugs ambivalently. York leans forward on the counter and grins knowingly.

"Not into local gossip, I take it."

"Well... There's a reason for that. You see, when I first moved here..."

Another long pause. York and Zach are used to waiting patiently when it comes to interacting with Deputy Emily. She seems so unsure of her footing in life, always so careful to look for stepping stones before she puts her foot down, that it's all York can do to stop himself from simply extending a hand to help her across. Her indecisiveness is a constant puzzlement to him; Zach says he shouldn't be surprised that he doesn't understand it. York is, after all, the antithesis of self-doubt.

The awkward pause is alleviated somewhat when Olivia turns on the cheap transistor radio sitting on the counter, and a wave of familiar synthpop washes over them as they wait for Emily's response.

_Every time I think of you  
I feel shot right through with a bolt of blue  
It's no problem of mine  
But it's a problem I find  
Living a life that I can't leave behind_

_You hear that, Zach?_ York's mental murmur is tinged rosily with fond memories. _I was only thirteen years old when this song came out._ Without having to consult each other, he and Zach share a quick moment of silence, as is their habit whenever something reminds them of the late, great Ian Curtis. _RIP,_ _and may a flight of Manchester angels sing thee to thy rest..._

"...When I moved here, I was still in high school," Emily says finally, looking down at her unfinished meal. "I was young, immature... So when the rumors starting flying around that I was, you know, easy..."

With no little effort, York pries himself away from the music and ponders Emily's words.

"Easy?"

"You know what I mean. I had no idea why it was happening, of course..."

_But there's no sense in telling me  
The wisdom of the fool won't set you free  
But that's the way that it goes  
And it's what nobody knows  
Well every day my confusion grows_

York is nodding his head, but Zach can tell he doesn't really understand. _Zach_, the questioning whisper filters down to him through dark layers of consciousness. _Zach, what is she talking about, easy? Easy to get a hold of? Easy to poke fun at? What? _

Zach thinks it over. _It's a reference to promiscuity._

_What? Why would anyone think that of Emily, of all people?_

_ You should ask her that, not me._

York says loudly, "Even in your teens, I can't imagine how anyone would get the idea that you slept around."

Emily jumps as if stung. "I didn't know any better!" she says defensively. "How was I supposed to know that my wild Seattle fashion sense would get me that kind of reputation out here? The rumors were totally unfounded, of course... I was just a dumb kid back then, that's all."

"I highly doubt you were ever dumb, Emily," York says admonishingly. "Ignorant, maybe, but not dumb."

"You know, Agent York, I think I've gotten to know you well enough to realize when you've given out a compliment," she says drily. "Even when it doesn't sound like one."

"A compliment is not the same as the truth. I don't believe in empty praise just to make the other person feel happy."

_Somehow, I wonder if that was the right thing to say._

_ ...Wasn't it, Zach? The truth is the truth, after all._

_ Still_, Zach counters, _it felt like the wrong move._

_Every time I see you falling  
I get down on my knees and pray  
I'm waiting for that final moment  
You say the words that I can't say_

"Anyway, after that I learned not to trust gossip." Emily stares at her hands, clasped on the counter before her, and gives one of her trademarked sighs. Each time she does it, it's like she's releasing a bird from its cage, watching it wing its way towards a personal freedom that she doesn't believe she herself will ever attain. Far from being a character flaw, her lack of confidence seems to York like some exotic aspect of the human condition that he himself has not yet grasped.

"I do get where you're coming from, though," he says, over the pleasantly domestic sounds of Nick chopping lettuce in the background. "For example, when I was in high school, I used to dress like a hardcore punk rocker-"

The explosive laughter that grips Emily immediately following his announcement takes York completely by surprise, although it shows only in the slight lift of an eyebrow.

"Is there something wrong?"

"You, a punk rocker?" Emily splutters, clutching her stomach. "That... That's..."

_I feel fine and I feel good  
I'm feeling like I never should  
Whenever I get this way  
I just don't know what to say  
Why can't we be ourselves like we were yesterday_

"It's not so hard to believe. No harder to believe than, say, Deputy Emily Wyatt and her wild Seattle fashion sense." York becomes morose at the memory. "Back in high school, nobody took my side, even when I had good grades... That and the clothes I wore were simply a recipe for rejection, I suppose. They were ingredients, just like the cereal and jam in this sandwich... Except I would never want to order it again."

Emily continues to giggle helplessly. "Still, I can't imagine you in a black leather jacket and long hair like Joey Ramone... I mean, you're so clean-cut and worldly now. Aside from the pink tie, that is."

"And you laugh?" York says phlegmatically, trying to resist falling in with her good-natured ribbing. "Look at you sitting there in your police officer's uniform, no makeup on and eating a steak for lunch..."

"Oh yeah? And what point are you trying to make here, Agent York?" She grins and points a finger at his chest, sea-green eyes still bright with mirth. "You're like that villain in the movies who tries to trick the hero into believing that they're really the same after all. Well, I won't fall for that one. You're the big-city FBI agent, and I'm just a small-town deputy. Regardless of what happened in high school, we really couldn't be more different, you and I..."

_I'm not sure what this could mean  
I don't think you're what you seem  
I do admit to myself  
That if I hurt someone else  
Then I'll never see just what we're meant to be_

York doesn't answer. He frowns into his coffee mug, and Emily seems to sense his shift in mood. Zach sees her blue eyes dim, reverting back behind the cloud cover of professionalism noticeable only for the brief moment it had lifted. She re-directs her faltering smile at Olivia as she comes to take away their dirty dishes, and after a long pause, says, "I guess we should talk to Nick, then, huh?"

"Yes," York agrees without inflection. "That sounds like an excellent idea, Emily." He slides off his stool and heads for the kitchen without a glance back.

Olivia looks over at the retreating agent with a curious expression. "Where's he off to? The bathrooms are down the hall."

"He wanted to thank Nick in person for the lovely meal," Emily says distractedly, watching Agent York lean over the partition separating Nick's kitchen from the rest of the diner. "It made a big impression on him."

"I'm so glad. It's so exciting to have a real life FBI agent here in the A&G! I'm sure Nick feels the same way... He just doesn't show it, that's all."

_Every time I see you falling  
I get down on my knees and pray  
I'm waiting for that final moment  
You say the words that I can't say_

The voice on the radio, which neither woman has been paying much attention to until this point, drifts off into a melancholy twinkle of electronic notes. Olivia reaches out and switches it to a news station, then continues talking as if in a trance:

"Nick... He can be almost too good at hiding his emotions. You know what I mean?"

Emily turns to look at her friend, and hesitates before replying.

"Yeah. I know what you mean."

"Men!" Olivia laughs and shakes her head.

Emily doesn't smile. "Men," she agrees.

Lunchtime is over.

* * *

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	46. chapter 43: Head Chef

Sorry for the late update, I'm switching service providers and my Internet has been down lately. Generally though I think I'm at least five chapters ahead, maybe more, so don't worry! Everything is proceeding according to plan.

And now for your regularly scheduled broadcast, in which York puts the pressure on Nick and Olivia.

* * *

**CHAPTER 43: HEAD CHEF  
****TIME AND LOCATION: 12:14, A&G Diner****  
****WEATHER REPORT: Slightly overcast  
FORTUNE: "Sometimes, a grilling is not just confined to the kitchen."**

"The kitchen is off limits, Agent York. Go around to the window if you really want to talk."

Fair enough, Zach. Every man has his sanctuary, and we have to respect that. I step away from the door and wait as Nick wipes his hands on a dish towel, moving at a snail's pace in order to postpone our encounter for as long as possible.

It's always amusing to see suspects behaving this way, Zach. Do they not realize that they're only digging themselves deeper into a hole by drawing attention to themselves? Actually, it's this very fact that makes me think Nick probably isn't the killer. He's not good enough at hiding his emotions, especially his dislike of us, to have avoided the authorities for this long. Still, we can't rule out the possibility that the Greenvale police simply aren't yet experienced enough at dealing with the type of criminal we're after, so let's put aside intuition for now and focus on the facts.

Finally Nick stops dawdling and ambles up to the window, folding his arms and giving us his trademarked scowl.

"What's up?"

"Could you tell us what you were doing the night Anna was killed?"

He heaves a sigh, as if being inconvenienced by a picky customer who's insisted on sending back his meal.

"I was at the bar with Diane. Talking."

"The Galaxy of Terror," I say, remembering what Emily told us and pretending as if I'd known all along. Nick doesn't seem rattled, only annoyed.

"Yeah, that's it."

"If you don't mind me asking, what did you two talk about?"

"Rembrandt and Turner. Is it against the law or something to talk about the old masters?"

"No, no. Not at all..."

Neither name strikes a cord with us. Rembrandt sounds familiar though... Wasn't he a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle? You're right, Zach, I'm thinking of Raphael. Although I guess he was a famous artist too, in his time.

Nick must have misinterpreted my thoughtful silence, because he says a little too quickly, "If you think Diane had anything to do with this, you're wrong."

"That's not it."

"Oh, so it's me you're after, then? Ha!" Nick laughs harshly and waves a hand in the air. "I would have thought you government types would have more sense than to go around bothering decent folk instead of catching the real criminal. Does the B in FBI stand for 'Barking up the wrong tree'?"  
"And what would you know about trees, Nick?"

He stops, looks at me. "What are you talking about?"

"Well, I'm assuming that you know all about Diane's current exhibit over at the Gallery, the both of you being so fond of art and all. Did Rembrandt ever paint forests?"

"Rembrandt was a portrait painter. Maybe you're thinking of Cézanne."

"Maybe I am."

"What are you getting at?"

"I'm just trying to paint my own picture, Nick. A mental picture. I'm no good with oils or watercolor, you see, but profiling is like its own special art, requiring its own special tools..."

He says nothing. I watch a steady tic above his right brow get perceptibly more rapid as I go on, smiling pleasantly.

"For example, I can always tell when someone is hiding something, based on subtle physical reactions that the person doesn't even know they're making. Eye, tongue and hand movements, perspiration, dry lips, even the angle of the neck during speech... It's like the body betrays its owner, secretly wanting to be found out. Isn't that fascinating?"

I watch as Nick folds him arms even tighter and licks his lips. He blinks as he mutters, "I'm working here. If you're not ordering anything, I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

With that he turns away and heads back to the counter where he'd been chopping vegetables. I watch him as he picks up his kitchen knife and resumes his work, the long, glittering blade flashing as it slices through the giving red flesh of a tomato. Even under that loose shirt, I can tell his shoulders are tensed.

Part of me feels a little guilty for coming on so strongly, Zach. But his attitude was asking for it. I'll feel much worse about interrogating Olivia; she's so fragile, she might shatter if my voice isn't pitched just right. Diane and Nick together make for a strange couple, to be sure, but Nick and Olivia... They seem to get along fine on the outside, but I would think it takes more than "getting along" to make a marriage work. Perhaps I presume too much; after all, we wouldn't want to become one of Emily's town gossips, would we, Zach?

Emily and Olivia turn towards me as I approach them. It's interesting how different the two women look, standing close to each other so as to beg comparison; even though they're both blonde and almost the same height, Olivia's pale, refined and somewhat melancholy features contrast sharply with Emily's round, open face, her almost Girl Scout air of hard-working guilelessness. I wonder what made her get into police work... She almost doesn't seem cut out for it. She has the brains, there's no doubt about that, but you and I believe she lacks the jaded affectation borne by so many in our profession. Something to ask her about later, perhaps.

"Olivia, there's something I'd like to confirm with you, if that's okay?"

"Yes, well... So long as it doesn't take too long," Olivia says, eyes darting around the nearly empty diner. Even Harry Stewart and Michael Tillotson have long since cleared out. To our left, Nick's eyes peer suspiciously out from the kitchen at us, but he knows better than to interfere.

"What were you and Nick doing on the night of the murder?"

"I was here at the diner. Nick said he was going to the Galaxy of Terror for a couple of drinks."

"Does he go to the bar often? Leaving you to hold down the fort?"

Olivia's hand goes up to brush a stray lock of hair from her forehead. A sure sign of inner stress. "Y-yes... About once or twice a week. Usually he leaves about an hour before closing. It's not as busy then, and I just have to do a bit of cleaning up before I lock the place up for the night."

"He said he'd gone with Diane Ames. Is that usual?"

"Oh!" She makes a funny sound when I say Diane's name, as if someone had pricked her with a needle. I sense Emily looking at me, and hope she doesn't let her friendship with Olivia get in the way of my line of questioning.

"I take that as a yes?"

"Well, uh... Nick says he enjoys the conversations he has with Diane. I assumed they'd gone out together on that night as well. They're very close friends, you see... They've known each other even before I met Nick."

"Do the three of you ever go out drinking together?"

There is too long a pause before her rather shaky response. "I don't... That is, I'm not that interested in fine art... It's all they talk about, apparently. I would just be a third wheel, really." She makes an attempt at a light-hearted laugh. "For Nick, on the other hand, it's kind of a second passion of his. It helps him to relax. He gets a little uptight with work sometimes, and I wouldn't want to begrudge him-"

There's a cough from across the room; one of the few people eating at the diner seems to want dessert. We let Olivia break away for the moment, unable to hide her relief, and I turn to Emily. She looks a little concerned, but seems to be keeping her focus. She whispers, "Do you really think Nick had something to do with this? If it's well known that they get together at the Galaxy every week, it should be easy enough to confirm their story with Carol."

"I don't know yet. And Carol may have her own reasons for not providing the most reliable witness account... You may have noticed the way she stormed out of the Gallery this morning. Of course, will have to question her officially, but this is a delicate web we're walking. We must tread carefully, to avoid alerting any spiders that might be waiting."

I raise a finger and add, saying aloud the caution in our minds: "After all, to be an art lover and a liar are not mutually exclusive terms."

Olivia returns after passing on the customer's order, and I say, "One more thing, Olivia. You said you weren't into art, correct?"

"Yes... And?"

"So how is it that I bumped into you at the gallery this morning? Didn't seem like Nick brought you there. You came alone."

The harried diner owner glances back and forth from me to Emily. She looks rather as if she'd like for someone to come to her rescue, but her knight in shining armor seems to be conspicuously absent. In fact, even when we first met her, Olivia always had that air of needing to be rescued, having missed her opportunity for escape some time long ago. She says, her voice rising uncontrollably high, "I... Well... I like trees! Is the thing. That's why I was there. I'm sure I told you before, didn't I?..."

"Olivia," Emily says gently. "There's no need to be so nervous. Agent York just needs to make doubly sure everyone was exactly where they said they were on the night of the murder. He's not from around here; he can't just believe everything at face value without asking a few questions."

"Surely you would have been better off in a forest than an art gallery, if trees were all you were interested in?" I persist, grateful for Emily's intervention even if all she can do is delay the inevitable bombshell we feel is coming. I sneak a peek towards the kitchen. Nick's back is turned, hunched over a bin as he peels potatoes. Good. I keep going, watching her face carefully as I say the words:

"I think you went to the gallery, not to see trees, but to see Diane. Right?"

Olivia's reaction is a bit more than I'd hoped for. All the blood seems to drain from her face in an instant, and her hand flies up to her mouth, her whole body rigid. Her eyes are wide and unseeing. She makes that noise again, halfway between a gasp and a sob, and Emily makes a sharp movement towards her friend. Luckily, she thinks better of it, and hangs back. She's in cop mode, now. Not the time to let personal feelings blunt the razor's edge of disclosure.

"You don't want to answer? Or perhaps this isn't the right place to ask." "Olivia," Emily says, "We're not here to accuse anyone of anything. We just need as much information as you can give us."

Slowly, the stiffness seeps out of Olivia's body. Her eyes uncloud, and her fist gradually uncurls itself. But there are lines in her face that hadn't been there before. She digs in her pocket with one hand and produces something shiny and metallic, which she slides toward us across the counter. I cover it with my hand, as if we're a pair of spies exchanging illicit messages. It feels like a set of keys.

"Meet me in the backyard an hour after we close up," Olivia whispers, not a trace of a stammer in her voice. "You can get there from the parking lot. I'll tell you all you need to... Why, hello, sir! Can I take your jacket?"

Another customer. I guess this is our cue to leave, Zach. I put the keys in my pocket and Emily follows me outside. Neither of us feel the need to turn around, as if the A&G Diner is one of those Biblical cities that God will transform you into a pillar of salt for looking back on. Only one thing is for sure: Nick, Olivia and Diane are definitely tied up in each other's affairs, if not the affairs of the case itself. If at least one of them is involved with Anna's murder, they might all be involved... And you and I both have the feeling that whatever Olivia has to tell us isn't just about her concern for her husband's fidelity.

* * *

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	47. chapter 44: Summer Talk

In which Emily and York converse yet again.

* * *

**CHAPTER 44: SUMMER TALK  
****  
TIME AND LOCATION: 13:02, A&G Diner****  
****WEATHER REPORT: Slightly overcast  
FORTUNE: "It was the heat of the moment."**

"This is all getting to be a lot to take in," Emily says to York as they stand outside on the sidewalk. "I'm not her best friend, but we are pretty close, and Olivia never talked about Nick and Diane to me... I always thought they were all on decent terms, but nothing like this. It seems like a stretch, but do you think there might be something related to the murder?"

"Too soon to know for sure," York says, lighting a cigarette. "In a case like this, timing is everything. It's almost always too early to act, or too late, never in-between... This seems to be as good a moment as any to explore other avenues of inquiry, however."

"How do you mean?"

"I mean there's nothing more we can do about this Nick and Diane situation until we meet with Olivia. Until then, it's time to do some independent research. By the end of the day, whatever we've discovered, we'll at least know if there's any merit to this... Bizarre love triangle."

He gives her five seconds, counting Mississippi. She just looks at him as if waiting for him to say more.

"...Was there anything else, Agent York? If not, I think I'll be heading back to the department. Did you want me to drop you off anywhere before I leave, or-"

York loudly exhales a cloud of cigarette smoke in her direction. "Emily, I'm disappointed! You didn't catch the reference."

"What are you talking about?"

"Bizarre Love Triangle!" York exclaims. "New Order! _Every time I think of you, I feel shot right through with a bolt of blue..._"

"I still don't... Oh." Emily's face registers a mixture of exasperation and amusement. "I get it. The song on the radio. There's no end to the number of rabbits in your hat, is there?"

"Now I'm the one who's confused. It's not a magic trick, just common sense. You know, Emily..." He gestures with his cigarette as he stares up into the sky with the air of a long-bearded mountain guru. "As a teen, I used to really be into Joy Division before I knew the lead singer had committed suicide. His wife discovered him hanging by his neck from the kitchen ceiling."

"That's terrible," Emily says, at a loss for words.

"Yes, it is. That's why the band re-formed later as New Order. It was a dark discovery, let me tell you... I could never listen to their music the same way again after that. It got even worse when I found out what year he'd killed himself."

"When was that? Before my time, I'm guessing."

"1980. About twenty-six years ago."

"Why, what else was so terrible about 1980?"

York smiles. "I don't want to talk about it."

"...Oh."

"You said you were heading back to the station?"

"Y-yes, I did say that. Did you want to come along?"  
"Actually, I was wondering if you could drop me off at Lysander's scrap yard," he replies, putting the remains of his barely touched cigarette into a cylindrical ashtray from his suit pocket, even though there's a perfectly serviceable disposal canister right outside the diner. "Apparently my car's been fixed. I'm getting tired of these old siren junkers, so I'd like to pick it up as soon as possible. Would you mind if I drove us there before we part ways? You can take the police car back with you, of course."

"No, I don't mind," Emily says, still rattled. They get into the cruiser and York continues talking pleasantly about various inconsequential matters, a steady stream of words that Emily is sure is meant to make her forget about what he'd just said. 1980; what could be the significance of that particular date? He'd seemed to fixate on it for just a moment before pulling away, as if his sleeve had been caught on a nail. And the look in his eyes as he'd changed the topic of discussion, so blandly unassuming that she's sure there must be something else hiding behind the curtains...

Aside from everything else he'd mentioned, or failed to mention, there is one other disturbing coincidence: 1980 happens to be the year Emily Wyatt was born. A sensation like a cold finger being run up her spine makes her shudder, hard enough that even Agent York can't help but notice.

"Air conditioner up too high?"

"I'm fine. Thanks, though."

"Are you sure? You won't be nearly as appealing with goosebumps all over your skin."

He says this in the tone of someone evaluating a wallpaper sample. Emily rubs her upper arms self-consciously.

"If anything, it's too warm in here. Summer tends to overstay its welcome in Greenvale."

"Is that so?" York looks out his window, at the dark verdant spires cresting above the flat tops of the buildings. "Compared to a lot of places I've been, the weather here is pitch-perfect. Not too hot, not too cold."

"Like in Goldilocks and the Three Bears: Just right."

"The fairy tale!" York exclaims. The vehemence in his voice makes Emily grin.

"You seem awfully excited. I don't know a single person who doesn't know that old story."

"No, it's not that. Of course I've heard of it before. But I've had fairy tales on the mind since the day before yesterday, when I visited the school and Becky Ames at her house. I mentioned this to you at the community center, but I'm fairly certain her boyfriend Quint Dunn has the key to at least one part of this mystery."

Emily thinks back to the conversation they'd had. "Right. That reminds me, George and I are going to check out locker 4011 later today. Grandma's Basket, you said it was called. And that's supposed to be some kind of code name for...?"

"I'm not certain, but there appears to be some kind of drug-running operation taking place in the high school. The students may not be the only party involved, but there's no other explanation for the locker being where it is, and it fits in with a lot of other little details. I spoke to some kids about Anna-"

"Really? Was this authorized, or one of your impromptu interrogations?"

"Well, it started off as more of a music lesson than an interrogation, but eventually they provided me with some useful information. Apparently, Anna was really into fairy tales as well. Among... other things."

"Little Red Riding Hood," Emily says, feeling the pieces forming slowly in her mind, still not quite clicking but coming more into focus. "The scrap of red fabric we found in the lumber mill... You're not trying to tell me this Grandma's Basket stuff has anything to do with the Raincoat Killer and Anna's case, do you? I mean, the links are there, but they don't make any sense. It's like we're connecting the dots but without a guide to tell us what order we should do it in."

"And the picture doesn't resemble anything familiar," Agent York agrees, braking at a stop sign even though the streets are empty. "Welcome to the world of profiling. Sometimes a pattern doesn't manifest itself until all the dots are joined. Other times you have to break the rules, form your own pattern. That forces other shapes to emerge from the darkness. It's risky, but it works. Tell me, Emily. What made you decide to join the police force, of all professions?"

At this point, Emily feels she has mastered York's abrupt manner of questioning sufficiently enough not to be thrown completely from the saddle. Instead of plunging blindly into her answer, she takes the time to think it through.

"...I don't know if you can understand this, but sometimes childhood fancy can bloom into a genuine career. Not many nine-year old girls were interested in becoming police officers; most of them wanted to be, oh, veterinarians and horseback riders, I suppose. I must have been an exception."

"Or exceptional."

"My father wouldn't have called it that," Emily says, smiling ruefully. "Anyway, it's a goal I've been working towards for most of my life. And now that I have it... Sometimes I wonder if I couldn't have done better."

"Emily! I'm surprised," York says. "I thought you of all people would recognize what a valuable service you provide this town. People need justice, and trustworthy officers to carry out that justice. Otherwise, anarchy prevails."

"I didn't mean to sound so melodramatic. All I meant was that, as a little girl... I suppose I thought it would be a little more exciting. That I'd be a real crime solver, taking down bad guys left and right."

She laughs a little at her own naivety. "Even when I was a teenager and realized the truth, I still held on to my dreams... But sometimes I can't help but feel like there must be more to this badge than what I've been doing with it for the last five years."

"Well, you've got your wish. There's a real live murder on your hands, now."

"You make me sound like I've been treating this job like a joyride! That's not the case, I'll have you know."

York shakes his head. "That was the furthest thing from my mind, Emily. I've seen your approach to things, your methods. By your own admission, you stayed up all night doing paperwork last night. Doesn't sound like the work ethic of a joyrider to me."

Emily feels slightly embarrassed by her outburst. "I'm sorry, I guess I'm just a little sensitive. You've been so capable since taking charge of the investigation that I simply don't know what to say any more. I'm very loyal to George, and I think he's done a lot for this community, but I might as well say it out loud: Our little police force just isn't equipped to handle this level of excitement."

"So in other words, murder isn't a natural occurrence up here."

"Murder is never natural, Agent York. No matter where it happens."

York turns towards her with a frankly astonished expression. "You're absolutely right! And it's so easy to take that simple fact for granted. Where I come from, you might say homicides are as common as the rain is here in Greenvale. It's a real temptation to shut yourself indoors and never go outside... But people like you and I and George, we're the ones they send out to splash around in the puddles, getting muddy and soaked to the bone. Sometimes without an umbrella, no less!"

"You and Kaysen are fond of your analogies, aren't you?" Emily tilts her head back and shuts her eyes, feels herself drifting into the soothing rumble of the car engine. She has a tendency to fall asleep in cars if the weather is warm and she's not the one driving; it's a holdover from when she was a little kid, back when her mother drove her to school every day. It never failed to put her in a soporific daze, and even these days she has trouble shaking it off. Now, running on four hours of sleep, it's even harder to resist.

"Anyway, it's true that I've never experienced a murder so closely before. I can feel it burning in my stomach whenever I think about it. Makes it hard to sleep, sometimes. Maybe if I was in your position, I'd be jaded too... But as it is, I want nothing more than to see the killer caught and brought to justice as soon as possible."

"Then you've answered my question, Emily. It's obvious why you got into law enforcement."

"Oh? Why's that?"

"You've got a heart that can't stand the evil in this world."

"Never heard it put to me like that before," Emily says, finding the line thought-provoking despite her drowsiness. "What about your heart, Agent York? I take it you're no fan of evildoers, either."

"My heart?" The car seems to speed up as they hit January way, no other vehicles in sight for miles in either direction. The sight of the telephone poles flashing rhythmically by at regular intervals do little to sharpen Emily's focus. She yawns, despite her attempts to stop it.

"Or maybe it's your lungs you should be worried about."

She hears York chuckling softly, just as the familiar rusted peaks and valleys of the scrap yard come into view. His voice sounds a mile away as he replies, "Vanquishing evil is unpleasant by its very nature, it's true. It's almost part of the job description. But that doesn't mean we can't enjoy ourselves during the parts in-between..."

It's no use. Her eyelids are like lead. Strangely, the last thing that comes floating up to her out of the warm darkness before it claims her is a single word... "Justice". It hovers before her, cream-colored, wavering slightly. She just has enough time to register it before she finally submits, sinking endlessly into a dreamless black pool...

* * *

Just want to take a moment to congratulate everyone who's made it this far. In for a penny, in for a pound, as they say... And the Raincoat Killer hasn't even struck again yet! I expect things will pick up significantly after that point, but until then, this stew is going to boil for a little bit longer... You can't rush murder, after all.


	48. chapter 45: Love In Decay

Oh Quint, will you ever catch a break? It's like he's living in some completely different story.

* * *

**CHAPTER 45: LOVE IN DECAY  
****TIME AND LOCATION: 13: 16****  
****WEATHER REPORT: Slightly overcast  
FORTUNE: "Some ghosts haunt the living. Some ghosts are the living."**

Quint hovers uneasily next to his father's carrot-orange S33 Condor, shuffling his boots on the driveway as he waits for Richard to join him. Richard slams the driver's side door shut and straightens his hat with one hand, his eyes looking strangely weathered under its brim. From his other hand dangles a bulging white plastic bag bearing the Milk Barn logo. He turns and nods at Quint.

"You ready to go?"

"'Course I am. Why wouldn't I be?"

Richard looks as if he might try to answer this question, but drops it. "Come on then, no need to wait for me. And stop acting like a prisoner on a chain gang. There isn't anything ought to be keeping us here except for common decency, you understand?"

Quint tries to keep the sullenness from creeping into his voice. "Yes, dad."

"Then get a move on."

Suppressing the sudden urge to run in the opposite direction, Quint climbs the front steps of the house and knocks on the door. He hears Richard come up behind him, but nobody seems to be answering. The two of them stand on the porch, feeling the silence as if it's a solid thing, weighing on their shoulders. Then, after what feels like a much longer stretch of time than has actually transpired, the door creaks open and a slice of pale skin with a single frightened eye peers out at them.

"Hullo, Sallie," Richard says softly, taking off his hat. Quint hears the tenderness in his father's voice and wants to smash it. Deep down, Quint fears his father's vulnerability. And even deeper than that is the fear of what he'll be held accountable to without his father's strength to rely on.

"We thought you might be hungry, so we stopped by the Milk Barn for supplies. You ever had Five-Bean Salad before?"

"N-no. What's that?" The voice drifting from the door wavers dangerously, a lit match on the verge of going out. Unable to reach her through the door, which hasn't budged, Richard tries to comfort her with a smile.

"It's like a Three-Bean salad, only with two extra types of bean."

"Oh. Yes. I see."

"...May we come in, Sallie?" Richard finally says. Quint heaves a mental sigh. He knows it's uncharitable, but he can't help but feel infuriated that they have to go through this same routine every time they visit. It's as if Sallie has a short-term memory disease; she never opens the door fully without Richard having to ask, and her behavior doesn't indicate that she remembers anything of their previous visits to her house.

On the other hand, Richard seems to be suffering the same malady as well. He never loses his patience, no matter how oblivious Sallie seems to his presence, and the gentle tone he uses when talking to her is as steady as she is not. He performs his duties as reliably as a hired manservant, and if he shares his son's exasperation, he shows no sign of it.

The door moves inwards by fractions, and Richard and Quint step through into the cramped clutter of the widow's front room. The curtains are drawn, and there's old newspapers scattered across the worn carpet; even the alignment of the furniture seems slightly off, further adding to the sense of neglect. Quint suppresses a shudder as Richard goes to put the groceries on the kitchen table. He hates this house, the dank sour smell of it; he can sense the shadows of the two missing members of the Graham household flowing intangibly through every wall and floorboard. They creep through the electricity and taunt him from the light fixtures.

"Quint, come in here and help me find a can opener, will ya?" Richard calls. Quint goes to comply and passes Sallie on his way to the kitchen. She's wearing her faded blue bathrobe, the same robe she's worn for the last few weeks since Anna's death. Her hair is lank, with an unhealthy sheen to it, and her eyes are glazed over as if she's drugged or drunk. Or both. She sways towards him and he fears he might have to touch her, hold her up, but she recovers and leans back against the wall, staring at the floor. He hurries quickly to his father's side as he rummages through a kitchen drawer. Richard gives him a probing look.

"Well, don't just stand there. Go look somewhere else. Sallie, you want something to drink or what?"

"I drank plenty already before you came here."

"I was thinking water or juice, maybe."

"Nah." Sallie runs a hand through her hair, leaving dark furrows in the tarnished blonde locks. Suddenly she lurches from her position in the doorway and staggers in the direction of the stairs leading to the second floor. "I think I'm going to be sick," she moans.

Richards looks at Quint again, and something passes between them, Richard's eyes burning fierce signals in his son's direction. Quint swallows momentary panic and almost trips over his feet as he goes to put his arms around Sallie's shoulders. Moving clumsily, as if in a two-legged race, he manages to support her all the way to the bathroom, where she drops to her knees and starts dry retching into the toilet bowl.

Quint backs out of the bathroom and closes the door partway. The sounds coming from behind it seem almost animalistic, like something's being slaughtered; his skin is prickling with horror. He curses himself for not having the strength to comfort her, hold her hair while her body tries in vain to rid itself of the crude poisons she's no doubt poured into it, but he's paralyzed. He wonders if there's a limit to the amount of energy that an individual can spend on other people, him having depleted his supply of compassion on Becky over the last couple of days. But that's different. Love is inexhaustible, timeless. Whatever he feels for Sallie, it isn't that. Pity, sympathy, perhaps. Not love.

Maybe that's why his father is able to handle her with such ease. All you have to do is look into Richard's eyes as he talks to her to see the truth. Quint tries to remember what it was like was back when Lisa was living with them, how his parents used to look at each other in those days, and finds a cloud cover where memory should be sharp. Had it ever existed between those two, that look?

Richard and his mother had never fought, at least not in front of him. When she finally left, it felt less like abandonment and more like a piece of the furniture had been removed from the house without warning. One day, she was there, and the next day she wasn't. The only clue to her disappearance was a conversation he'd overheard between Lisa and Sallie, who had been hovering around the bar for some reason. They'd gone inside one of the trailers and Quint had pressed himself against the window, listening.

"He's not the man he was when I stole him from you," he'd heard Lisa say. Her voice was calm, nearly robotic. "You can have him back. I've found someone better."

"Am I supposed to thank you? If he's been damaged, it's your fault for what you've done to him."

"Sallie, don't be so naive. Richard isn't a package of stale cookies you found on the shelf at the Milk Barn. He's a man. He can take care of himself."

"Richard's not the only thing you took from me. Neither of them deserved you."

"It doesn't matter what you think of me. I'm moving on," Lisa had said, and that's all Quint can remember, if there was any more. The noises from the bathroom have stopped. He finds himself listening intently, this time for signs that Sallie is still awake and not passed out or anything. He knocks softly on the door.

"You okay in there?"

Nothing. Quint bites his lip and, pushing past his hesitance, opens the door.

"Sallie?"

She looks up at him, tears streaming down her face. Her hair is a tangled mess, obscuring one eye, the visible one red and swollen. She leans back against the bathtub and starts to sob. The erratic movement of her thin shoulders under the bathrobe is accompanied by perfect silence, as if she's finally become aware of the inconvenience of her grief. It reminds Quint of the dog he'd used to own as a kid, a Golden Retriever named Patrick, who in old age had crawled underneath the trailer one day and had refused to come out until he had stopped breathing altogether.

Some animals understand the privacy of death.

He kneels next to her on the bathroom tiles and breathes in the musky, wasted scent of her, his heart fluttering in his chest.

"Sallie, I... I'm so sorry. I don't know what to say."

She stops crying at the sound of his voice, so abruptly that it frightens him. "You were Anna's friend, weren't you?" she whispers, leaning towards him. "Quint Dunn..."

The invocation of his name seals his fate. Fearing her power, completely at odds with her frail outward appearance, Quint trembles and says, "Yeah, kind of," not wanting to admit that it was really Becky who had been closest to Anna during her final days... Becky, who must have been learning the same spells now keeping him chained to Sallie's despair.

_Why me?_ he wonders. _What is it about me that they need so badly?_

"Did you know... Did you know?" Sallie's mumbling is borderline incoherent.

"Um... Know what, ma'am?"

"She liked mushroom soup best of all."

"No, I. I didn't know that."

"Grilled cheese sandwiches and mushroom soup," Sallie nods feverishly. "She used to eat it every day. For six whole years, every lunch was sandwiches and soup. Then she turned thirteen, and everything changed. Then it was macaroni and cheese and a can of Coca-Cola. She always left the can half full. No matter how many times I told her to drink all of it, she always had to be somewhere else... That red can, sitting on the kitchen table, always half full."

The tears are spilling down her cheeks again, but her eyes maintain that strange over-keen brightness, peeling off the outer layers of his soul. She says, voice pitched half an octave higher, "I always poured it down the drain. I shouldn't have done that. Such a waste. I even threw the cans away... Why did I do that? Why won't Anna come back to finish it? I ask her always, come back, please don't make me throw this out..."

Weak with revulsion, Quint starts forward and roughly puts his arms around her. The stench of her unwashed hair fills his nostrils. How is it possible that love and decay can be so inextricably entwined? For something in Sallie is indeed dying, like a dog who wants to be alone in its final suffering. He holds Sallie tighter and feels her sharp nails digging into his back.

"Do you love my dad?" he demands, the words crawling harshly from his throat. She whimpers at him and he says again, "Do you love him?", the urge to shake her rising.

"I love Richard..." she whispers. "I loved Danny, before the accident. I loved Anna. I loved you too, when you were mine-"

Quint interrupts. "He's waiting downstairs. We should..."

He stops talking. He can feel Sallie's hand on the back of his head, drawing him closer, until it's she who is holding him to herself, not the other way around.

"Ssssh," she says in his ear, rocking him slowly. He feels the tears pricking his eyelids, and teeters on the edge of submitting them at the whisper of her breath against his cheek.

"You're... a good boy, Quint. A wonderful... son..."

Footsteps on the stairs, then a light tapping at the half-closed door. Richard's voice.

"I found the can opener. ...You guys okay in there? Sallie?"

"We're okay, dad," Quint says, marveling at the steadiness of the words. He slips out of Sallie's suddenly limp grasp and helps her up, taking care not to step on her bare feet. He makes sure that his eyes are free of moisture before opening the door.

"We're coming. We're good."

"You sure?"

_No_. "Yeah," Quint says, and looks into his father's face as if trying to prove a point. And he and Sallie go downstairs with Richard and make Five-Bean Salad for lunch, and they do the dishes and the washing up in silence, and Sallie doesn't say another word until they leave.

* * *

No news for this week. The Sinner's Sandwich RP needs more members of the police force, though.


	49. chapter 46: Scrapped Memories

Sorry for the late update, I've been busy and forgot to upload a chapter I wrote last month... A chapter in which Lysander acts like, well, Lysander. He's another character that I wanted to shore up regarding his role in the plot, being that he's one of the older residents and was part of the military... And of course, he is none too appreciative of York's efforts to dig up the past.

And of course, my deepest thanks continue to you, the patient reader.

* * *

**CHAPTER 46: SCRAPPED MEMORIES  
****TIME AND LOCATION: 14:12, Lysander's scrap yard****  
****WEATHER REPORT: Slightly overcast  
FORTUNE: "You will take a brief journey into one man's heart of darkness."**

"I can't believe it."

"Believe it. She's right there in front of yer eyes."

"She's beautiful."

"That she is, that she is."

"It's like the accident never happened... This is amazing."

"Are you gonna take her home, or are you gonna keep gawking at her like a lovestruck teen?"

The General Lysander stands next to us on the packed dirt of section G-4, arms folded and feet planted wide, a toothpick jutting aggressively from one side of his mouth. His whiskey breath seems to have been tamed for the moment, and his eyes are bright under his heavy brow as he basks in our admiration. He deserves every bit of it too, Zach: At long last, our car sits gleaming before us under the cloud-filtered sun, her paint job so fresh that the blackness of it seems to simultaneously reflect light while sucking it back in. The silver stripes running across her hood show off her contours to a tee, and her hubcaps sparkle a Morse code greeting at us as we gaze at her. But it's her shiny new license plate, YZ1DRFL, that contains all the words she needs to say.

You're wonderful, too, I'd like to tell her... But even I wouldn't go as far as to start talking out loud to inanimate objects. People really would think I was crazy. I turn to Lysander, shaking my head.

"General, this is a miracle, what you've accomplished here. I'd go as far as to say that your repairs have improved on the original model. I may be forced to drive all the way to Greenvale again if she's ever in need of a touch-up."

I step closer and run my hand over the hood. Check it out, Zach. Wasn't this part all crumpled to hell the last time we saw it? Behind us, Lysander barks a laugh.

"A touch-up? She won't be needing one, not for a long time, soldier. 'Less of course you drive her off a bridge or something, like an idiot."

"Well, I thought maybe you could install wings so she could just fly away if that ever happened." I grin, then snap my fingers as if remembering something for the first time.

"Oh, by the way, General... Do you remember the first time I came here?"

"'Course I do. Never forget a soldier's face," Lysander rumbles good-naturedly. "You may be a pissant, but you've seen war, real war. That I can respect. Not like those goddamn hooligans that come squealing in here with their broken mufflers and sagging steering columns... They don't know a thing about combat, 'cept what they see in their little electronic game boxes."

"With all due respect, General, I've never been in an actual war either," I say truthfully. That water gun fight in sixth grade doesn't count, Zach. "What makes you think I have, though? There aren't any medals on my chest or anything..."

Lysander jabs a thick, beaten-up finger at my forehead. "The scar, idiot! Don't tell me you've never looked in a mirror before. How'd it happen? Grenade shrapnel? Maybe you got a metal plate in that skull of yours."

"Not exactly. Anyway, it'll be gone in five days, and nobody'll notice."

"Are you kidding me? Looks like Charlie sneak-attacked you with a broken beer bottle or something. Real nasty. Real... horror." Lysander seems to drift sideways in his thoughts for a moment, his eyes looking over my shoulder at something buried deep in the past. "You understand real horror, son?"

Zach, I remember who Lysander reminded me of just now. Can you guess what movie character I'm thinking of?

That's right. Marlon Brando as Colonel Kurtz in Apocalypse Now. Released in 1979, probably Coppola's darkest and most haunting film. Kurtz is one of those movie villains that's hard to forget. In fact, he's not even really a bad guy. There aren't really any bad guys, or good guys, for that matter. Just a lot of sound and fury and chaos, and, yeah, horror...

You know, we've been through some pretty hellish assignments, but war is something else altogether. We were lucky never to have fought in one, Zach, and it's because of guys like Lysander, who already did it for us. Like Kurtz, he seems to have holed up in his own little world, a private kingdom where the busted-up remains of old cars are his only subjects. As long as he's not out here butchering cows with machetes or anything, I guess it's okay...

You think he's a little busted-up inside too? It's probably hard living all the way out here by yourself, when your memories come back to haunt you.

Lysander snaps his fingers in front of my face. I blink.

"You got some kind of brain damage, soldier? Looked for a second like you went way out of it."

"No, not me," I say, glancing over to the police cruiser parked near the entrance gate. Emily must still be asleep. I turn back to Lysander, who for once seems to be waiting for my response. You think I should get right to the point before he throws us off again, Zach? I agree that a more direct approach is called for than is usually warranted. Anything more subtle would probably fly over his head.

"General, I want to ask you about the Raincoat Killer."

"Eh?"

"The Raincoat Killer," I repeat. "I asked you about it the first time we met, and you told me to wait until you'd fixed my car. Well, I didn't think it was possible, but you pulled it off in record time. And now that I've paid you for your services, I think it's time for an explanation."

The General's thick arms are folded across his chest as I'm saying this, and they seem to tighten with tension as I finish. His white brows are set to "Scowl". Abruptly, he turns and starts walking between two scrap piles that seem to consist entirely of gutted, stripped-down car frames, tires and upholstery removed, their windows smashed long ago. As I hurry after him before he's lost in the shadows, I see the way his shoulders are hunched, how he seems more intent on escape than confrontation, and reflect that he's not really like Kurtz at all. It's as if he's lost all his former presence, and now seems more like these hollowed-out cars, resigned to some fatal emptiness of being that we cannot yet fathom.

I catch up with him as he turns into Lot E-6 and starts picking through a stack of hubcaps, most of them rust-red with age. He tosses a few rejects aside, not seeming to notice or care that they come within inches of hitting me as they skitter erratically across the ground. I step aside and watch for a while before speaking.

"General? I wouldn't be asking if it wasn't important."

"You don't know what's important in this life. Young punks never do." Toss, fling, toss.

"I know there's been a murder in town, and the killer is still out there. I think that's pretty important, and I know a lot of other people who do, too. Any information you have would be most valuable."

"Whoever the killer is, he ain't nobody I know anything about."

"A double negative! So you do know who he is, then."

At this, Lysander spins round and stomps up to me, his large barrel chest crowding my personal phone booth of space. He may have laid off the booze prior to our arrival, but I can still smell the decades of heavy drinking washing over me in a foul olfactory wave. Still, if you wake the sleeping dragon, you must be prepared to face its breath. I look up into the General's red, watery eyes, creased in bleary anger.

"Are you trying to play games with me, son?" he growls dangerously. "'Cuz if you are, I'll hand you your ass so fast you'd think it was in the Indy 500. Maybe you should just hop right back into that black and white piece of cop crap of yours and hightail it on out of here. Greenvale doesn't need the likes of you. We can take care of our own problems."

"Sounds like you've been talking to George Woodman," I say, trying not to inhale. "Are you really such an isolationist that you'd stand by and watch members of your own community get picked off, one by one?"

"Woodman! Pah!" To our surprise, Lysander leans back and hawks a contemptuous blob of saliva to one side. "In my eyes, he's just one of a long line of rat bastard Sheriffs who think stapling a piece of tin to their chests makes them the masters of the universe. They don't understand that when your commanding officer tells you to jump, you ask how high. When he tells you to dig a hole in the muck and bury your face in it, you ask where's the shovel."

"Isn't the Sheriff considered the head honcho around these parts?"

"Not compared to the military, they ain't. 'Specially not when we're engaged with the enemy! Take Harold Finch, for example. Now he was a card, a real Joker. Type of clown who'd cut off his own nose to spite a man in uniform. Knew he was trouble the moment they pinned that star on 'im..."

He's starting to rant, punch-drunk on something far more heady than alcohol. When the memories start to flow, not even the Hoover Dam can contain them. I press, very gently, "Finch was one of those young punks you're always warning us about, right?"

"The worst kind!" Lysander bellows, barely able to contain his rage. "Barely out of his twenties and they practically handed him the key to the township! Probably woulda made him mayor if I hadn't shouted that idea down. I was a bit of a spring chicken myself, back in those days, but even I knew it was a bad idea from the start."

"He was the Sheriff back then, I take it? He must have been in office for quite awhile, if George was his closest successor."

"Oh, he was practically a mummy by the time they fished 'im out of the river. Boating accident, or heart attack... Was a chicken-or-egg question at the time. Man was pushin' seventy, not that hard to figure out which came first. That was, I wanna say, 1993?"

"He was in office for that long?"

"Damn near close to it. Harold didn't like the idea of retirement, practically had to drag 'im out of the department so Woodman could take his place. Not much of an improvement, though. I've stopped caring about what those goons get up to nowadays. No use trying to inflate a tire with a hole in it."

So George has been sitting on his throne for over ten years, Zach? I suppose I can see why he's so trusted by the townsfolk. Of course, it could just be out of a fear of change... Take this Harold Finch character. According to the General, he was in office for almost forty years! Sheriffs only have four-year terms in the state of Washington, but I guess they kept re-electing the guy. Either he was a superb Sheriff or people just got used to him.

"What exactly was it about Sheriff Finch you didn't approve of, General? Was he that terrible at his job?"

Lysander walks a short distance away and sits down heavily on a beaten-up crate nearby, wiping his forehead as if he's run a mile. His face is red and the vein pulsating above his left eye indicates the toll this outpouring of recollection is taking on him. Still, he doesn't seem quite able to stop himself, as if he's been sitting on a geyser all these years, waiting for a chance to let it erupt.

"He was no Sheriff, he was a lousy rat. Always poking his whiskers where they didn't belong. We gave him orders... Clear, direct orders, straight from the top. And he still wouldn't shut up about that damned axe-man in the red raincoat. As if such a thing ever existed! It's mostly his fault people don't go out in the rain these days. Deep down, they still believe that hokey fairy tale."

"Sheriff George thinks it's a fairy tale, too. Have you talked to him recently?"

"I haven't spoken to the bum since he was reinstated two years ago. What's the point? Nobody listens to their superiors any more."

"This axe-man in the raincoat," I say, treading very carefully. "Why on earth would the old Sheriff make something like that up? Just to scare people, so he could have more control? Perhaps there was something he based it on, as inspiration?"

Lysander's eyes are frighteningly empty as he stares at me. He's done something to himself, Zach, something to make himself forget the truth. His stories are all over the place, full of inconsistencies. First he got mad at us for not believing the Raincoat Killer was real, now he's trying to convince us that it wasn't. And what does this have to do with the former Sheriff of Greenvale? Nothing but wheels within wheels, Zach.

"I don't know what kind of moronic picture book Finch was reading to come up with the idea," Lysander says slowly, enunciating as if he's forgotten how to say the words. "All I know is, he was told to keep quiet, and he disobeyed orders. That's the one thing you can never do. Disobey orders... Orders equals order, and without order, anarchy rules. The clock strikes, the center cannot hold..."

"Agent York? Is everything okay? Where are you?"

Emily's voice rises above the misshapen piles of junk, like the dove Noah sent out to look for land. It's no use telling which direction it's coming from, so I simply yell back, "Section E-6!" and wait for her to find us. A minute later and she appears from behind the blackened husk of what used to be a Dodge Caravan, rubbing her eyes like a little girl woken unexpectedly in the night by a strange noise. She spots us and heads over, looking curiously at the General sitting on his crate, head in hands, mumbling under his breath.

"York, I'm so sorry. I hope you weren't waiting for-"

"No need to apologize, Emily." I cut her off, raising my hand. "You were just in time. The General and I are finished for now, wouldn't you say so, sir?"

Lysander barely raises his head to nod, or shake it, it's hard to tell. Either way, there doesn't seem to be anything else of use we can learn from him, at least not at this particular moment. Like the vehicular carcasses scattered all around us, he's been hollowed out, pillaged, perhaps of his own volition. Maybe next time we'll be able to dig out another small flash of insight, but it's obvious he needs recharging. In all our years of profiling, Zach, we've come to realize that it's the tough guys who are often the most fragile on the inside.

Emily glances back and forth from us to the practically comatose General. "Is everything all right? I thought I'd make sure you had what you came here for before I drove back to the department."

"We didn't get everything, but we got enough." I light a cigarette, and my heart jumps as I relish the prospect of being able to smoke in our own car. Freedom, Zach. That's what being the driver of your own destiny means.

I lead her back towards G-4, leaving the General behind despite Emily's repeated worried glances back at him. No doubt she's feeling sorry for the old man, hunched over on that crate, talking gibberish to himself. But you and I both know, it's not the signs of a mental breakdown we're seeing. It's just another way of repairing the damage. The mind is much more complex than a car engine, of course. But the General is a consummate professional, and he's got the tools and the skill to do the job... The only question is whether he has the will to do it.

* * *

To full of food to do a proper update, but I'm sure y'all know the score by now.

(remove *s)  
**http:/*planetredwood.*webs.*com/**


	50. chapter 47: Botany Lesson

Back on schedule! In this chapter, Agent York learns a little something about plants, and Jim Green learns a little something about Agent York.

* * *

**CHAPTER 47: BOTANY LESSON  
****TIME AND LOCATION: 15:10, Greenvale Forest Park****  
****WEATHER REPORT: Slightly overcast  
FORTUNE: "A thumb war, in which the opponent's is green."**

Jim Green's heart sinks when he hears the sounds of a motor, loud, noxious and thrumming with destructive momentum, speeding up the forest path towards the cabin. He leaves the twins at the table, their small heads bent over their textbooks as if nothing is amiss, and goes out to the front porch to await his unwelcome visitor. The car, big, black and unfamiliar, glides to a stop in front of the clearing. Jim strides without haste towards it.

To his surprise, the FBI agent has not come alone; Deputy MacLaine is sitting in the passenger seat with a clipboard held stiffly across his knees, nervously adjusting his glasses. Agent York climbs out and slams the door, paying no attention to the nearby flock of wood thrushes startled into flight by the sharp burst of sound. Jim's mood darkens as he approaches, hands shoved firmly in the pockets of his overalls in case the agent tries to shake them.

"So you're here, Mr. York. What is it you wanted again?"

"Hello to you too, Jim. As you can see, I've brought Thomas along to record our discussion for the purposes of the investigation. I hope you don't mind; this is a fairly routine inquiry, after all."

"I'm sure even if I did mind, you'd insist on going ahead with it anyway," Jim says, unable to keep the harshness from his voice. "You city folk are all the same. But let's not waste time; I'd like to get this over with as soon as possible. Both of you come on inside, we can talk there."

At first Jim hadn't been sure it would be a good idea to hold this meeting in the cabin with Isaach and Isaiah around. But then he has the idea that, if Agent York tries to say anything raw or obscene, he'll have a good excuse to kick him out, on the account of there being children present. The twins look up at York with shining eyes when he comes in, and they wave back when York waves at them. Jim gently but insistently herds them into the bedroom and softly closes the door, resenting the need for such precautions.

"As you're probably aware, this may not be directly related to the case," York says, seating himself in one of the large wicker chairs placed in the living room by the old iron stove. Thomas follows suit, but Jim remains standing, leaning against the bookshelf he'd made with the twins two summers ago. York adds, "Still, it could be a valuable clue."

"You're talking about those red flowers," Jim says. Scritch, scratch, goes Thomas' pencil.

"Yes. What can you tell me about them? Do they grow anywhere else besides the base of Anna's tree?"

Strike one for mentioning the murder scene, Jim thinks. He looks around; the door to the twins' bedroom is shut tight, but the wood might just be thin enough to eavesdrop through. He tries to keep his anxiety under wraps and turns back to his visitors.

"Occasionally I see one or two growing in isolated places around the park."

"Had you ever seen them before the day you discovered the body?"

"Agent York, if you can't refrain from talking about... that... using such terms, I'm going to have to ask that we continue this conversation another time when the twins aren't around. They're in the middle of their studies, you see, and I can't leave them here by themselves."

Agent York repeats without hesitation, "Had you ever seen those flowers before that day?"

"As I told you at the Community Center, no, I haven't. But they are rather fascinating plants. A very unique physiology, and a bloom cycle like I've never seen. Funny thing is, they don't appear in any of the nature almanacs I own."

Jim feels himself starting to warm to the subject despite himself. He says, "I've noticed that they tend to appear after rainfall, never during, or while the sun is out. Often they disappear for a time, only to return in random places when the weather is right. That... particular patch has been flourishing, unusually so, even when it's not wet out..."

His eyes shift sideways, even though he has no secrets to keep. He adds, hesitant, "In fact, I have been growing a few in the cabin out of curiosity, and they seem to be doing fine."

Thomas glances up nervously as York leans forward, eyes gleaming with a strangely intense inner light. "May we see these specimens?" he asks.

"I don't see why not. You know, it's odd..."

"What is?"

"You're the second person to ask me about the red flowers. Dr. Johnson called yesterday about them, too. Seems he needed a larger sample than the one you gave him."

York frowns, whether in irritation or contemplation, Jim can't tell.

"Ushah called yesterday, huh? Well, it's good to know he's found time to work on our case. In the meantime, let's see what you've got, Jim."

Jim only notices how quickly his heart has been racing when he goes into the bedroom to retrieve the small pot of earth with its three crimson passengers, all fully bloomed. The twins look up from their narrow beds, lying on their stomachs, textbooks propped open against their pillows for easy reading. He can feel their eyes on him as he walks over to the windowsill where the flowers sit, their petals the brightest color in the room, and tucks the pot under one arm.

He's just about to leave when Isaiah kicks his stockinged feet lightly against the headboard and says, "Grandpa, why does Agent York want to know about the flowers?"

Isaach rolls onto his back and performs a similar maneuver, upside-down. "Yeah, why does he want to know?" His face brightens as a possibility strikes him. "Maybe he can help us study!"

"Not now, boys, please," Jim says, as warmly as possible, then goes out into the main room, shutting the door behind him. He puts the flowers down in front of York on the small wooden table between them and stands back, feeling the perspiration on the back of his neck. He knows his anxiety is irrational, but he cannot deny the overwhelming stress that these types of situations put on him. It's why he prefers the company of trees and plants and wood life to those of people; the denizens of the forest are pure, noble, and above all, simple. They don't gossip or play verbal games, they don't murder each other in cold blood. They are everything human beings are not. He watches Agent York bend down towards the flowers, breathing in their scent. He narrows his eyes.

"It has a peculiar smell, wouldn't you say so, Jim? How would you describe it?"

"It's... not really like anything I've come across before, at least not in these woods. Very pungent. Unusual for a plant of such small size. It has a sharp, wild edge to it, similar to pine sap in some respects, but then, one would expect that from a tree..."

York rubs a petal delicately between finger and thumb, unleashing an odorous current of nameless spices and dark, heaving undertones. Thomas makes a face like he's about to sneeze and puts one hand over his nose, his other hand still writing.

"How about that, Zach?" Jim hears the agent mutter under his breath. "Amazing! Just think how much more immersive movies would be if they re-introduced the concept of Smell-O-Vision. Put one of these pots under every seat in the theater. It would definitely add an extra dimension to the usual humdrum thrillers Hollywood puts out nowadays... Imagine, when Keanu Reeves is trying to save a bus from exploding in _Speed_, if you could sense the danger with your nose as well as your eyes and ears-"

Thomas says in a small voice, "Agent York, should I be taking this down?"

Instead of answering, York sits up straight, snapping the fingers he'd rubbed the petal with and causing another brief aromatic surge.

"So Jim, would you say you've never come across this particular smell before?"

"That's right. Although..."

"Yes?"

"I recall one incident... It was, maybe four days before Anna..." Jim wipes his forehead with a handkerchief, his mind filtering through the chaos and debris of the last few weeks with the steady deliberation of a sand crab. "I was picking up snacks for the twins at the Milk Barn. Usually I don't feed them anything but vegetables from the garden patch out back of this cabin, but I've learned you can't satisfy young boys with just carrots and broccoli. When they've earned it, they're entitled to a small treat every once in a while."

"Just like training a dog," York says. "Positive reinforcement. Pavlov, etcetera."

"Excuse me?"

"Nothing. Just basic psychology. Please continue."

"As you probably already know, my daughter Lilly owns the Milk Barn, along with her husband Keith Ingram. I believe Becky Ames was there as well. She worked there part-time, though I don't see much of her as I'm not often in town. Sweet girl, very helpful and polite. On this particular day, though, I do remember thinking she seemed a little out of sorts. I asked her where the cookies were and she pointed me in the right direction, and then Quint Dunn came in-"

"Becky's boyfriend?"

"Is that so? I'm not sure."

"No, I suppose you wouldn't be. Teenagers like to get up to all sorts of things behind their elders' backs..." Agent York gazes thoughtfully into the middle distance. "Did Becky seem pleased to see him?"

Jim wavers for a moment, trying to decide whether it would be worth it to try and hide his disapproval. He decided no; why should he feel pressured by this man? This was his cabin, after all, his home ground. He said, scorn unmasked, "I happened to be watching from behind a row of shelves when I saw Quint whisper something in Becky's ear. Then she took him by the hand and they went into the storage room together; I suppose Becky had the key. Lilly was sweeping over by the produce section and Keith was helping another customer, so neither of them noticed."

Scratch, scritch, goes Thomas' pencil.

"I... I thought about bringing it up with Lilly, let her know that one of her employees was shirking duty, but then not thirty seconds later, they came back out. Quint left without another word, and Becky went back to re-stocking shelves. Almost like nothing had ever happened. I think I must have been the only one to notice, and it wouldn't have stuck in my mind at all, except..."

"That smell?"

Jim blinks. "Yes. When Becky opened the storage room door to let herself and Quint out, it kind of billowed towards me, hit me square between the eyes. It made me feel... Nauseous, somehow. Even when it faded a few seconds later, I felt like it was still clinging to me. But this lot here on the table doesn't seem to be causing me any problems, and the twins don't mind it either. So I guess it must have been a one-time shock."

"I see. I'm guessing you never mentioned this to anyone because you didn't want to seem prying."

"As you said, none of my business what the young people get up to these days."

"If this were any other situation, I'd be inclined to agree with you," York says gravely. "But this is a brutal homicide after all, so I must explore all avenues of-"

"What's a homicide, grandpa?"

"Yeah, is it a new type of plant food?"

"Maybe it keeps the bugs from eating the leaves!"

The three men turn. Isaach and Isaiah are standing in the doorway to the bedroom, two pairs of hazel eyes taking in the entire room with wide-angled curiosity. Nobody hears them enter; who knows long they have been standing there, listening. For a momen, stasis reigns, Thomas' writing hand frozen with the tip of the pen to the paper as if paralyzed.

Finally Jim, his face darkening with emotion, points a trembling finger at Agent York and says in a choked voice, "Now look what you've done. Get out. I told you not to talk about such matters while my grandsons were around."

York slowly turns to face Jim's wrath, like a sea captain staring down a darkening storm. His eyes, which had appeared somewhat discolored at the beginning of their meeting, now seem filled with the color of the forest outside, a rich green on green. Like the sudden appearance of the twins in the doorway, Jim isn't sure if this is a change at all, or if they'd always been like that and he'd just never noticed. He can feel his anger starting to leak away despite his attempts to maintain it.

"Jim, Isaach and Isaiah are just fine," York says. "Ask them yourself. Anna's a Goddess of the Forest, and we're just trying to help her solve a problem. Isn't that right, boys?"  
"Don't talk to them, please. Isaach, Isaiah, I thought I told you to stay in the bedroom."

Isaiah points at Thomas, whom everyone else seems to have forgotten about, sitting pale-faced on the couch with his clipboard clutched to his chest.

"Is that Deputy Thomas, grandpa?"

"Why are there so many people here?" his brother chimes in. "Is this a party?"

"Is there gonna be cake?"

"Yeaaaahhh! Cake!"

The two boys exclaim in one voice, jumping up and down with sheer joy at these mere idea. "You see? Perfectly fine," York says, with an off-handedness that re-ignites Jim's fury. "Actually, while I'm here, it might be a good idea to ask them if they've smelled anything unusual recently. Smaller noses might be more sensitive than those of an adult-"

"For God's sake, they're just kids. Leave them alone. I told you I didn't want anyone dragging their muck over my doorstep, especially not when my kin are concerned."

"And I'm telling you, it's the fact that they're still kids that makes them uniquely adaptable," York says patiently. "It's the grown-ups you ought to be worried about."

"Don't tell me how to look after my own!" The harshness in Jim's voice surprises even him, but he can't stop talking. "I can tell just by looking at you, Agent York, that you don't have anyone to look after, no responsibility to anyone but yourself. That being the case, I'd appreciate if you left my family alone. This world is dark enough without your kind adding to the dirt."

There is a long pause. Over in the doorway the twins glance at each other, their grandpa's outburst making them realize for the first time that something serious might be going on. Jim takes the opportunity to hustle them back into the bedroom, leaving his visitors still seated outside. He crouches down in front of the boys and looks directly into their eyes, wanting, needing them to understand.

"Isaach, Isaiah, you've got to stay here for a little while longer. I've got something I have to deal with. Don't you worry, though, grandpa's got everything under control."

He watches, uncomprehending, as Isaiah puts his head down so Isaach can whisper something in his ear. Jim lets them talk, hoping that if they take long enough, Agent York and Deputy MacLaine will get the point and leave. He waits with bated breath for the sound of the agent's car starting outside, then drifting back down the path and away like the vaporization of a bad dream... But no such luck.

The twins nod once, having come to a conclusion, and turn back to him with solemn expressions on their round faces. Isaach speaks for the both of them:

"Grandpa, we have a message for York."

Not Mr. York, or Agent York, just York. Somehow this discomfits Jim more than anything else.

"Oh, really? A message from whom?"

"We can't say!"

"Yeah, she told us to keep it a secret."

Alarm pulses through the old man's chest. "Boys, I think you'd better tell your grandpa what this is all about."

The twins shake their heads without an ounce of regret.

"Sorry, we can't. We promised," Isaach says.

"Can you tell York for us? She said you should talk to him."

Jim surrenders, though it feels like a nail is being wrenched loose from his heart. He listens carefully, doesn't need to have anything repeated back to him. It doesn't make a lick of sense, but now a strange feeling of purpose is flowing through him, replacing the unease. It seems like everything has been taken out of his hands, and there is nothing he can do but perform the task that has been asked of him.

When Jim walks back to the sitting room, Thomas is nowhere to be seen. Agent York stands backlit against the front window where the twins usually do their studying. He's holding the pot with the three red flowers in one hand, the other hand raised to the side of his head. Talking to himself, like a preacher in an empty church. Jim almost feels bad for breaking the spell.

"Where's Thomas?" he asks.

"I told him to wait out in the car. The level of excitement in here was getting to be a little too much for him."

"I see. Ah... Agent York? Before you leave..."

York smiles like this is the first appearance Jim has made. The green seems to be gone from his eyes.

"It's all right. I'm not going anywhere."

"Oh. Well... Good," Jim lies.

"But there was something you wanted to tell me, right?"

"Not me. The twins. They have a message for you, it seems... Apparently they can't say who told them to give it to you, though. I would..." Jim has to search for the civil thing to say. "I'd appreciate it if you didn't try to dig it out of them."

"That depends on the message."

"I'm not going to let you talk to them again. And I doubt there's anything they can tell you that will be especially helpful. I'm sorry, but this investigation has gone too far where I'm concerned."

York tilts his head back slightly as he stares at Jim, as if regarding some mildly fascinating museum exhibit.

"Too far, really? Maybe it's a city thing, but where I come from, no investigation has gone 'too far' until the perpetrator is apprehended. And as far as I know, Anna's killer is still at large."

"Have you no respect for the sensitivity of others? I invite you into my home. I attempt to cooperate within the boundaries of what we agreed to talk about, and still you insist on crossing those lines with inappropriate subject matter. To top it all off, you refuse to leave when asked! Is that a city thing too, Agent York, or are you just an unfortunate exception?"

Instead of getting upset, York looks contemplative. "Why does that sound so familiar?"

"What?"

"Oh, I know what it is. In a lot of horror movies I've seen, a vampire can't enter a household without an invitation either. Once he's inside, he's so thirsty that he usually doesn't leave until he's sucked the blood of every human who-"

Jim is so apoplectic at this point that he can't even speak. York seems to take his soundless mouth movements as a sign, and miraculously doesn't finish the sentence.

"...Anyway, I can't leave until you've delivered that message. Whether or not it's important to the investigation will be up to me and Zach to decide."

"If I say it, will you and 'Zach' finally leave us alone?"

"You have our word, Jim."

York hefts the pot and causes the red flowers to sway on their slender stalks, an action that Jim takes to mean he should go ahead with the message. He runs it through once more, mentally, checking to make sure he has it locked; then he recites, slowly, deliberately:

_ "Once upon a time, there was a rabbit. Happily never, ever after. Everything is going to be okay, said the willow tree. I will be here, waiting for you."_

Jim stops. "...That's it. That's what they told me."

He watches for York's reaction to this pronouncement. The agent's eyes close, a faint frown mark appearing between his brows. He looks to be in some kind of trance. A few seconds pass before he speaks again.

"I see. Thank you for your time, Jim. You'll be glad to know I've gotten everything I came for. Possibly more, it would seem."

York turns to go. Despite his relief, Jim can't help but feel there's something else he should say, and blurts out:

"The flowers. Where are you taking them?"

The agent looks faintly surprised, looking down at the pot in his hand as if he'd forgotten how it had gotten there.

"Oh. How rude of me. I didn't even notice I had them... But now that you mention it, I do need some of these for myself, even if Ushah's already got his larger sample. I hope you don't mind me taking this."

"I do mind, actually. I've been studying those flowers for the last few weeks. I can't just replace them with specimens outside the control group."

York grins lightly, but Jim senses a trap in the agent's voice as he replies, "Just think of it as me removing the muck from your grandsons' bedroom. Odd place to keep such a morbid memento, especially for a man who finds mere words to be such callous offenders... Still you're right. Who am I to judge? You obviously care for your family, and that's the kind of responsibility a man like me doesn't have to worry about."

"Agent York..." But there are no right words.

"Jim, you're not the only person in this town who wants their loved ones safe and protected from harm. You're just one of those who succeeded." York's smile fades as he adds, quietly, "Not everyone gets to be that lucky. Sallie Graham knows that much, now."

"I didn't mean... I only..."

"It's okay, you don't have to explain yourself. I don't know if you noticed, but I find humans very... difficult to explain. Sometimes they can seem like alien creatures from Mars, or even one of the more distant planets like Jupiter or Neptune. So if I've offended you, I'm sorry, but that's just how things must be done where I come from. Perhaps that means I'm really the Martian? Oh well, an existential debate for another time, I suppose."

Jim doesn't know what to say, so close are the similarities between what York has just described and his own life-long affinity for the woods, and on the flip side, his aversion to people and their infinite complications. York's smile returns, and this time it reaches his eyes and stays there.

"But I do get where you're coming from. You're absolutely right to try and stop the vampire on your doorstep, keep your loved ones safe... And if I were in your position, I'm sure I'd do the same. All I'm asking is for you to consider the idea that protection isn't always what we think it is. Sometimes it can mean... Opening up. It may sound unintuitive, but that's how life works sometimes."

"Sounds like your understanding of people goes a lot deeper than you think, Agent York," Jim whispers, having just barely found his voice. York opens the cabin door and looks back at him, with an expression that is equal parts sympathy, amusement, and something else that he can't quite identify.

"Thank you, Jim. That means a lot to Zach and I. But you know, if there appears to be any sort of understanding on my part, it's all an illusion. Pain is a mutual language that anyone can speak, even the squirrels and deer... I have no great insights on the subject. Just... experience."

And with that, York disappears into the suddenly bright sunlight outside, the clouds having dissipated sometime after his arrival. Only then, when the glare fades from his eyes, does Jim finally hear the sound of the car driving away, now fading, now gone... Out of reach but having left something in its wake, small but slowly growing, like a single seed planted in dark soil.

* * *

_Hey Zach, the DP fanfiction section is filling up nicely. When I get a break, I should review some of these..._


	51. chapter 48: Alphabetical Order

In which George and Emily do some investigating of their own.

* * *

**CHAPTER 48: ALPHABETICAL ORDER  
****TIME AND LOCATION: 16:48, Greenvale Public High School****  
****WEATHER REPORT: Slightly overcast  
FORTUNE: "Sometimes the answer is right at the top of the page."**

"I understand this is a very serious matter, Sheriff, and I'm grateful to be in a position to help. I'm just not certain I'll be able to acquire the information you want right away."

Emily tries not to fidget in her uncomfortable wooden chair as George stirs irritably beside her. He takes off his hat and scowls at the pencil-thin man in the tweed suit, who is sitting behind a large desk that is obviously the most expensive piece of furniture in the whole office. There's a brass plaque on the desk reading "MARSHALL G. REESE".

Throughout this meeting, Emily has had to refrain from calling him "Principal Reese" or "sir"; she feels slightly awkward in the knowledge that this man has been running this school since she first transferred here, almost twelve years ago. She's always remembered him as being somewhat hard-headed, to students and staff alike, and it seems time hasn't softened him one bit.

She also remembers kids calling him "Principal Greasy" behind his back, an unfortunate moniker combining his middle initial and surname. She tries to put this memory out of her head while George is talking to him.

"Marsh, I'm not asking you to move the moon for me. I just need you to look through some paperwork real quick. Doesn't the school keep records of which lockers belonged to each student?"

"It's a policy of ours, yes. Doesn't mean it was enforced. There were at least five hundred kids in attendance this year, and I can't say for sure whether the registration logs were kept clean or not. We do assign lockers based on grade, for what it's worth."

"So show us who was assigned to locker 4011. What's the problem?"

Reese sighs and runs his hand through the few strands of hair left on his head. "Well, it's common for students to swap lockers, share 'em, or just grab an empty one, regardless of the official assignment. It's like a game of musical chairs. We try to keep it all organized, but it's generally not worth it to do so. By the middle of the year, it's just a big mess, and we tend to leave it that way."

"Hell of a system, Marsh," George says dangerously. Reese doesn't even blink.

"What do you expect us to do, on our budget? We have bigger concerns, like making sure there's enough textbooks to go around. You know as well as I do that the only chance any of these kids are gonna make it out of this dump is through the educational system, and you're telling me I ought to be worried about where Joey and Jenny are hanging their windbreakers?"

"What do you mean by dump?" George says. "Greenvale's a fine place to live. Things may look bad now, especially with the Anna Graham situation, but if we can survive this, we can survive anything."

"Perhaps, but it's still a dying town. You and I, Sheriff- sorry, Miss Wyatt- we're just old enough to remember better days, and the stories our parents told us about how good they used to have it here. Ever since they shut down the lumber mill... Well, I just can't imagine how things are going to improve."

"Maybe you just lack imagination, Reese," George growls. "But I'd appreciate it if you'd at least show us a little cooperation; God knows we haven't been getting nearly enough of it around here lately."

Emily feels she ought to say something as well. "Marsh- ah, Mr. Reese- it might help if we took a look at the assigned locker lists, keeping in mind everything you've told us. It might not be accurate, but it's a start."

The principal sighs, tapping a ballpoint pen against the desktop. Then he tosses it down and gets to his feet, motioning for the others to follow.

"All right, all right. I did come all this way just to open the school doors, after all. The files are in Registration, just across the hall. If you're lucky, you might even see Mr. Recznik. He may know something as well."

"Who's Mr. Recznik?" Emily asks, tripping over the unfamiliar syllables.

"The janitor. He's doing some light maintenance work after being held off by the investigation. Ah, here we are."

Reese fumbles with keys and the three of them step into a musty office lined with filing cabinets. The principal goes over to one labeled "Locker Assignment" and pulls out an entire drawer, which he sets heavily on the card table in the middle of the room.

"There you have it," he says, panting even after this mild exertion. "All our locker records for the school year. Good thing you requested them so early, because we don't keep these on file for very long."

"I know we already took down your statement, Mr. Reese," Emily says as George rifles through the thick folders inside the drawer. "But do you remember anything else about Anna that might have involved something called 'Grandma's Basket'? Maybe the phrase 'A basket of goodies for grandma' rings a bell?"

"Not until you showed me what was written on that locker. Looks like typical graffiti to me, and I have no idea what it might have to do with Anna. Like I said, I was only aware of Anna when she ended up in my office on truancy charges. I deeply regret not being more observant, or I might have seen the signs... On the other hand, her teachers and classmates didn't notice anything unusual either, so who knows what really happened. I have to believe the police know more than I do at this point."

"Found it," George says behind them, pulling out a folder that at first glance appears to have nothing in it. Emily and Reese look over the Sheriff's broad shoulders as he lays it on the table and opens it up, revealing two pieces of typed paper stapled together.

"That's the locker listing for the graduating class of '06," Reese says unnecessarily. "All alphabetical, last names first."

"You don't have a reverse directory?" Emily says, the implications of this seeming to hit her and George at the same time. Reese shifts uncomfortably.

"Like I said, it's not a particularly well-kept file."

George grunts. "Then I suppose we'll just have to go through every single name until we find a match."

They all follow George's finger with their eyes as it alights at the top of the paper, preparing to makes it way down the list. But it stops there, and Emily points, astonished that they should be so lucky on their first try.

"4011! There it is!"

"Well I'll be damned," the principal says, whistling. "Right there at the top. Who's it belong to?"

George and Emily glance at each other, neither of them registering surprise. George lets her say it out loud:

"Ames, Rebecca."

They turn to Reese, who looks like a startled turtle about to pull back into its shell. "Becky?" he says weakly. "But she's a model student! No... There must be some kind of mistake."

Reese takes the paper from George and stares at it for a long while. Then his thin shoulders slump in defeat, and Emily finally sees how much time has changed him, made him older, greyer, more resigned.

"...It still might not be hers," Reese says slowly. "I told you about how convoluted locker ownership can get... I mean, it's bad enough that there might have been drug trafficking going on right under my nose, but how could Becky have been involved with anything? She had a scholarship to Harvard, for God's sake..."

Emily is taken aback. "Harvard? Is she still planning to go?"

"I don't know. I assume so; she was one of the few academic hopes in this school we had. No disrespect to the dead, but she and Anna always struck me as an odd pair. If they weren't such close childhood friends, I might be inclined to wonder... Not to mention that scruffy boyfriend of hers-"

"Thank you, Marsh," George interrupts. "Emily, I think we're about done here, don't you?"

They say their goodbyes to the principal, leaving him to tidy up the folders by himself as they move down the corridor towards the exit. George stops Emily once they turn the corner, dark eyes narrow as he adjusts his hat lower over his brow.

"Well, Deputy, what do you think? There a chance Miss Grade-A Ames might be involved with this... whatever it is?"

"I... There might be-"

"Where did you get this information from, again?"

Emily senses danger, too late to back away from the cliff. "Agent York," she sighs, knowing that George hadn't been lying when he'd told her that it would take more than flowers to get him to see eye to eye with York. "Apparently some of the students tipped him off about something called 'Grandma's Basket', said it had something to do with Anna."

"And now he thinks a smudge of red powder inside a high school locker indicates a drug-trafficking ring."

"No, not exactly... At any rate, that's not the main point." Emily now wishes York were here to explain himself. She forgets all too quickly that faith and gut feelings traditionally have no place in a criminal investigation, but York's hunches seem to go deeper than mere instinct. Or, at least, he has the ability to make them seem that way.

_It sounded so convincing when he said it... _Still, she persists.

"George, Reese said Anna and Becky were childhood friends. That's one connection. Becky's been placed under police protection and Agent York said she told him to contact Quint if he wanted more information, which makes me think she knows more than she told us when we first questioned her. Now we find out that there might be a connection between the red powder and Becky, and this whole Little Red Riding Hood thing-"

She pauses for air intake, rushing over her words and finishing prematurely: "I really think Agent York might be on to something here!"

George stares at her. "What red powder, Emily? That sample he showed us when he stopped by the station to pick up Thomas? It was barely enough to smother an ant, let alone get it high. He hasn't even presented us with Ushah's test results confirming whether or not it IS a drug. I'm sorry if I'm bursting your bubble here, but this is no way to run a murder investigation!"

Emily can tell George is holding back the full force of his ire for her sake, which somehow makes it worse. And what can she say? She hadn't asked Agent York too many questions, wanting to seem on the ball, but the way George puts it suddenly reveals how haphazard the whole thing must seem to outsiders. And with York running the show, everyone is an outsider...

"I know it seems far-fetched, but, the note on the locker... Little Red Riding Hood... There might be a connection between that and the Raincoat Kill-"

"-an urban legend, whose involvement in this case we still have no direct evidence for," George interjects. "A piece of red raincoat found in a lumber mill is ultimately meaningless. We don't know how long it's been there, or who might have worn it. If someone really is running around pretending to be a fictional serial killer, we have to be on the lookout for the man under the hood, not his disguise. What about that tattoo Agent Morgan was so obsessed about earlier? The photo we found? He's chasing too many tails at once, and he's going in circles."

His tone softens slightly as he registers Emily's crestfallen expression. "Look, Emily, I can understand being a little star-struck with the man. But take a step back and look at the facts. We have the autopsy results, the crime scene, possibly a motive... Concrete, solid evidence. Meanwhile, Agent Morgan is running around after flowers and fairy tales, claiming to hold some secret information that will blow this case wide open. Of course, he's not allowed to tell us what that information is, even when it might help us to solve this case ten times faster."

"O-of course, I see that, George... I'm not saying I agree with his methods either, but you have to admit, some of the lines he's drawn so far make sense. I just think it might be worth pursuing a few, if only to make sure..."

"Well, if you throw enough darts, you're bound to hit a bull's-eye sooner or later through sheer chance." George sighs, fools around with his hat some more. "I just don't want you following him off a cliff, that's all. Make sure you're pointed in the right direction before you start chasing ghosts."

"I'm sorry, George. I guess I was a little blind-sided by-"

"JUSTICE!"

George and Emily raise their heads. An old man in stained coveralls, pale eyes open to their limits, stands with a mop in one hand and the other pointed directly at them.

"Justice!" he exclaims again, with less force now that he's got their attention. His muscles vibrate with tense energy so his extended finger trembles from side to side, making it difficult to tell which one of them he is addressing, if not both. The moment hangs there, beyond their ability to form a response.

"Mr. Recznik, what's all this commotion about- Oh!" Principal Reese has come round the corner, having finished shelving the files. Now he stands looking at the three of them, glancing back and forth.

"Well, I wasn't expecting to see Greenvale's finest still roaming these hallways. Were you done here or is there something else you wanted?"

"Nope," George said curtly, moving past Emily towards the exit. "Just got a little distracted, that's all."

Outside, back in the police cruiser with George silent and stark behind the wheel, Emily is tempted to ask the obvious question: _What was that all about?_ But there isn't any point. George won't have any clue what that outburst had been either; in fact, mentioning it would probably just make him more irritable.

"So do you think this was a complete waste of time?" she finally asks, looking not at him, but out the window. "Or should we follow up on Becky next?"

"What do you think?" George's voice is even, controlled. She doesn't know what to make of it.

"I don't think it would hurt."

"Great. Then you can call up Thorne and tell them we're on our way over."

Emily's heart sinks. "Todd's on Becky Watch? What about McNab?"

"I had the men go in shifts. Keeps them on their toes in case something actually does happen. I don't expect it will, but like Agent Morgan said..."

A slight, meaningful pause. "Like he said, it might give her some peace of mind. Make her a little more forthcoming."

"Are we going to try talking to her now, then?"

"Why not? That's what you and Morgan wanted, isn't it?"

"Yes," Emily says miserably. "It was... Is."

How is it that she could have been so confident about this? Maybe she'd been lured into a false sense of security by all those hints of George and York's budding camaraderie. Now she feels as if this morning might have been an illusion, George pretending to get along with York to put her at ease. But George would never concede to acting on behalf of someone else's feelings, even hers... Or would he? Until recently, her boss has never been a difficult man to understand. A little enigmatic, perhaps, but solid as a rock. Yet ever since Anna Graham's death, she's felt the ground shifting under her feet... Perhaps even George Woodman isn't immune to these feelings of instability.

The idea worries her. But, she reflects as she picks up the radio, right now she has bigger problems to worry about...

"Hey Todd? It's Emily. We're on our way over..."

An annoyed pause. "Yeah, whatever. Bye," she says, and hangs up. "Jerk," she adds, under her breath, and is relieved to see George's mustache quirk out of the corner of her eye.

"Now, you two better behave yourselves around Miss Ames, Emily," he says, slightly more serious than joking. "I may have my doubts about whatever secrets Agent Morgan thinks she might be hiding, but I have no trouble believing she needs some peace and security. That goes for all the townsfolk, and we need to do our part to provide it to the best of our ability."

Emily nods, glad that his attitude towards what he obviously believes is a fool's errand has shifted, but still feeling dissatisfied at how the conversation seems to have petered out without resolving itself. It's moments like this one that display the unpleasant side of working with George; it isn't that he's cruel or overbearing- in fact, they have a wonderful working relationship- but it's the tone he sometimes uses with her when she falls short, that occasional disapproving look in his eyes, never prolonged but always acute, that reminds her of how her father used to make her feel... How he still sometimes makes her feel.

Moments, that make her wish her mother was still around...

* * *

_Last-minute Christmas shopping is such a burden. What do you get for the disembodied voice in your head who has everything, Zach?_


	52. chapter 48B: Phone Call 2

This may seem like a meager offering considering I'm late updating this thing (family vacations, woo), but that's because I have large blocks of the next five chapters built up and I'd like to get ahead of myself again before I start posting for reals. The next chapter is pretty long, too, so I'll leave this here for now until I can figure out the ending. Merry Christmas, Zach! York loves the tie you got him.

* * *

**CHAPTER 48.5: PHONE CALL 2  
****TIME AND LOCATION: 18:02, Quint's trailer****  
****WEATHER REPORT: Slightly overcast  
**

"Hey, Quint Dunn speaking. Who is this?"

"I ratted on your girl, Quint. I'm sorry."

"What?" Hand over phone, quick glance around the trailer. Out the window- no sign of Richard. Crouch beside the motorcycle, harsh whispers.

"Is that you, Chris? What the hell are you talkin' about?"

"He was FBI, man. What was I supposed to do, lie? I didn't say much, just... I mentioned the Basket."

"How much did you tell him? When did this happen?"

"Yesterday afternoon. Out in the basketball court. I hardly said anything, just the code, but if he's smart it won't take him long to figure out what it means. I didn't plan on leaking, it just kind of... happened..."

Heart falling into stomach, eaten by acid. "How could you do this to me? Everyone knows me and Becky were going out. I'm the next closest link. If he traces it back to me, I'm screwed-"

"Look, man." Chris getting hot now, fueled by desperation. "Julie was the one who started spilling first, okay? And the rest of us followed. She was right, though; this isn't just about us. Anna's dead, and... I didn't want to say this, but I think it might have something to do with where Becky was getting the 'product' from. You know?"

"I don't know where she got it from. She never told me."

"Yeah, but it works."

Cold fire. "I never did the stuff."

"Well, me neither, but I know kids who did, and they said it was legit. Fuck, Quint, I dunno. This got way too big, way too fast. Do you have any idea what you're doing? What you're gonna do?"

Silence. Then: "I gotta talk to Jack."

"Jack who? The gas guy?"

"Who else?"

"Well, good luck with that, then. Say hi to Gina for me." A weak joke, a terrible joke, but he can't help but hear the grin on the other end of the line. "And Quint? No hard feelings."

"Son of a... If anything happens to me or Becky, 'specially Becky, I'm going to hunt you down and chop you off at the ankles with an axe. ... Why are you laughing? This isn't a joke!"

Realizes too late that it's not mockery he's hearing, but sobbing.

"...Chris?"

"I d-don't know what's going on, Quint. If they catch you, I... I don't think it's gonna matter. Something's happening, something bad, I don't know what-"

"They're not gonna catch me. At least you gave me a warning. And will you shut up? You're not the one who should be crying right now."

"S-sorry. ...Listen, I should get off the phone. I gotta drive my little brother to soccer practice..."

Pacing, hat off, hat on. Heat writhing under skin.

"Yeah, whatever."

"I'm sorry."

"...Me too. Don't call me here again, okay?"

"Okay. Bye."

"Bye."

Click.

* * *

_The Twin Peaks Gold Box set is the gift that keeps on giving, and by giving I mean scaring your loved ones._


	53. chapter 49: Richard

A decently long chapter to make up for my holiday absence, in which York continues to explore his rustic side.

* * *

**CHAPTER 49: RICHARD  
****TIME AND LOCATION: 18:14, SWERY 65****  
****WEATHER REPORT: Slightly overcast  
FORTUNE: "Here, peanut shells make a humble substitute for the red carpet."**

Richard Dunn has a very interesting face, wouldn't you say so, Zach? Rugged yet sensitive, tough yet emotional, weary yet optimistic. A mass of contradictions that add up to a unified whole. Standing behind the bar, polishing a glass and listening patiently to the various trials and tribulations of the regulars, he seems like an island of calm amidst the rowdiness of the establishment he owns: The SWERY 65, darts and drinks being the house specialty. It's dimly lit and there aren't many people here at six in the evening, but it's already starting to fill up. Music, unfamiliar but appropriate, jangles from the old-fashioned jukebox near the pool table, permeating the smoky air...

Zach, this is one of those moments where the city mouse goes to visit his country cousin and says, "I could really get to love a place like this"...

Richard looks up as I make my way towards the bar, raises his hand in greeting. He seems a little tired, but reasonably happy to see us; a nice change from the furtiveness that's colored our interactions with some of the other townsfolk. Maybe people hiding things is what he's tired of, too.

"Well, if it isn't Mr. Secret Agent!" he says, as soon as I'm in range. "Can't honestly say I expected you to show up in a place like this."

A patron sitting hunched over on his stool looks up at our approach, scowls, then moves down a few seats away from us. Richard laughs at my non-committal expression.

"Looks like I'm not the only one caught off guard. You guys always dress like that?"

I shrug, smiling a little. "It's Special Agent, not Secret. And I'll admit I don't often frequent bars with this sort of... rustic atmosphere, but when I'm on the job, yes. This is usually what I'm wearing. It varies from agent to agent, of course... Some of my colleagues are even cross-dressers."

"Rustic? Boy, you really are from the big city, ain'tcha?" he laughs. By themselves, the words could be misconstrued as an insult, but the way Richard says them, it simply sounds like pleasant conversation. He puts down the glass and towel and nods at my chest. "Right down to that tie of yours. I'll say one thing for you city folk, you've got open minds."

"How do you mean, Richard?"

His turn to shrug. "Just that a man wearing pink hearts on his tie is pretty much tantamount to cross-dressing around these parts, in case you didn't notice all the eyeballs swivelin' in your direction when you walked in."

I hadn't noticed, and my puzzled silence must seem like an indication. The skin around Richard's eyes creases as he chuckles quietly at our apparent ignorance.

"Personally, I'm a firm believer that a man's business is his business, and that goes for his pleasure, too, but I can't speak for everyone. This is an old-fashioned small town with old-fashioned values, and that sort of thing isn't exactly the norm around here... Not that anyone's gonna give you a hard time, especially when I'm running this joint, but it is pretty unusual for the 65."

"Really? I never thought of my sense of fashion as being so controversial," I say. "As for the old-fashioned values, that's exactly what I appreciate about this place. For the most part, I've been treated with nothing but the utmost respect since coming to Greenvale-"

"Oh, hell, Agent York," Richard says, breaking out into laughter again. He must be naturally jovial, although you'd never guess it to look at him, because I'm pretty sure there wasn't a joke in what I said. "I didn't mean it that way. Folks around here are as kind as can be; you've met Deputy Thomas MacLaine, I take it? Now, I'm not much of a traveler, but I'm sure you know better'n me that there are plenty of places in this world who'd chop that boy's head off for actin' the way he does. But Greenvale... It's different here. You might get a dirty look from 'ol Samson over there- and it helps that you're a newcomer- but that same man'd fight to the death anyone he heard mouthin' off about Deputy MacLaine. Because Thomas is a police officer, first and foremost, and it doesn't matter how he dresses or the way he talks... Because he belongs to us. And we take care of our own."

He nods in a satisfied, but completely unselfconscious way, and resumes polishing his glass. I take a seat at the bar, actually a little bit touched. Zach, I couldn't put it into words before, but I think that little speech convinced me: Richard Dunn is the genuine article. You'd never catch someone talking like that where we come from... Especially not in D.C., where every other man on the street is a politician or a politician's yes-man. Greenvale has its awful secrets, but it has its honest places too, and I never realized before coming here how rare a thing that is...

...That's true, Zach. You called it first, telling me he was a trustworthy guy when we met him at the Community Center. Sometimes, not often enough, things are exactly as they appear to be.

"Look at me, flapping my mouth off," Richard says, shaking his head and grinning. "And I haven't even offered you anything to drink yet. What's your poison, Agent York? Or has my jawing already pulled more time from the investigation than you can spare?"

"I have an important appointment at nine, but until then, I'm free to conduct myself how I please."

He seems to hesitate. "You... You do drink, don't you, Agent York?"

'Ol Samson, still glowering at the other end of the bar, leans forward in order to catch my response. I get the feeling that if I say I'm a teetotaler, he'll demand that I be put out in the parking lot.

"Of course I drink, Richard!" I say, loudly for Samson's benefit. "I may be an FBI agent, but I'm no stranger to alcohol. It's just... not my first beverage of choice when it comes to effecting the clarity I need while on assignment. No offense."

Richard stops in the middle of grabbing something from under the counter and stares at me. After a moment, he straightens up and takes off his hat, looking as if one of his regulars had suddenly sprouted wings and flew through the ceiling.

"Uh... That's a relief, I guess. No offense to _you_, but of all the suits I've known in my time, not one of 'em knew how to relax."

"Well, relaxation is relative. I feel downright lazy compared to the idea of being an around-the-clock surgeon, for example."

"Fair enough." He leans forward. "So I'm guessing you'd be interested in hearing the selection? Unless, of course, you already had something in mind..."

Yes, all right, Zach, I'll tell him. I didn't want to spoil the mood, but it does seem unfair to lead a man like Richard on under false pretenses.

"To tell you the truth, Richard, I didn't come here strictly for drinks," I say. Richard frowns a little and crosses his arms. His eyes, so friendly before, are now cooler, drawn more into himself.

"Shoulda known that was the case when you said you were dressed for the job," he says. "So what's the problem?"

"I'd like to speak to your son. Is he around?"

Richard shakes his head. "Quint took off 'bout fifteen minutes ago, didn't say where he was headed. I usually don't drag him in here until around eight or so, but I heard his car peelin' out and knew he was gone. Usually he's in his trailer tinkering with that bike of his... Why, is something the matter?"

"I don't want to be too hasty with the specifics, Richard, so you'll have to settle for generalities," I say. "I spoke to his girlfriend, Becky Ames, a while ago and she asked me to talk to him. How much of it has to do with the investigation remains to be seen, but a lead is a lead, and I've got to follow it. It's nothing serious, as far as I can tell..."

"But it might be."

"It might."

Richard leans on the counter, one hand covering his mouth as he stares intently in the direction of the darts games going on against the opposite wall. He rubs his chin, sighs as heavy a sigh as we've heard in years.

"Well, I figured you comin' in here could only mean bad news... I wanted to give you the benefit of the doubt, but I suppose there's only one reason an FBI agent would walk into a joint like this. Don't get me wrong, though, Agent York... I really 'preciate the work you've been doing since you got into town. You and the police."

"That's very interesting, Richard," I say evenly. "Because when I first spoke to him at the community meeting, Quint didn't seem very keen on the local law enforcement. Has he had any... problems with them recently?"

Richard shoots me a sharp look. "First you butter me up with small talk, then you break out the probe? I'd have appreciated it if you had just gotten right to the point soon as you got in."

"So what you're saying is, instead of circling around and complicating things, I should have made my shot directly," I say. "Like that game you play here. Bullseye!"

I mimic throwing an imaginary dart between his eyes. He flinches slightly; maybe I shouldn't have been imaginary aiming at him. He looks slightly embarrassed at being so easily spooked.

"Wha- Uh, yeah. I guess that's a fair comparison." He shakes his head in a bewildered sort of way. "What were we talking about again?"

Zach, it's amazing how often we get that question, even from our peers back at the Bureau whom we've worked with for ages. Is it just me, or have people's attention spans gotten shorter and shorter as the years go by? I thought it might be the result of fast-paced city life, but it seems this conversational disease has spread even to the countryside. A pity.

"We were discussing your son, Quint, and why he's got such a beef with the Sheriff's department."

Richard's eyes go back to being cool, but now there's a spark of doubt inside them.

"He's a good kid, Agent York. And if personal testimony from his father isn't official enough, his criminal record is spotless. You can try to dig up any dirt you like with one of your fancy background checks, but I guarantee-"

My turn to shake my head and laugh. "Richard! If this were a chess game, you'd be at least five moves ahead! It's not his past I'm concerned about, it's his present. Which means that if he is in any sort of trouble, there's more than enough time to get him out of it before it's too late."

Richard smiles painfully. "That supposed to be comforting? 'Sides, I'm way better at darts than chess..."

"And I'm uncannily lucky when it comes Crazy Eights, but that's beside the point." I raise a finger between us. "Now, I'm afraid we've got to get going soon, but don't worry about what I've said. I just want Quint to confirm a few facts, that's all. I'm sure we'll be out of your hat in no time."

Richard nods, but doesn't say anything, and he's no longer meeting my eyes. I lean on the counter, feeling the grain of real wood under my fingertips, and take a quick glance around at how the locals are taking our presence. We might have provoked a momentary interest coming in, but things seem to have settled down almost immediately, the music and darkness serving to cover our conversation like an ocean washing away footprints left on the beach. Raucous laughter from the pool table bursts out before drifting amicably to the floor, which, as Emily had mentioned, is indeed covered in peanut shells.

Richard notices me noticing the mess and seems to rouse himself, a thin line appearing between his eyebrows. "Damn kid's supposed to come in an' sweep the floor every coupla hours. Usually he's pretty good about it, but he seems to have been neglectin' his duties recently... I pin it down to Anna's death. Quint took it pretty hard, y'know. We all did."

Before I can respond, he tilts his head down and looks hard at me from under the brim of his hat. "And in case you think that me pointin' out this behavior is some indication that I think he's up to something, it isn't. Anna and Becky were practically best friends, and since Quint was dating Becky, the three of 'em used to hang out a lot together. Anna was very important to Quint, so even though I don't think grief is any excuse for laziness, I'm willing to cut him a little more slack than usual. No idea why Becks would think Quint knows anything, but I guess that's what you're gonna find out, right?"

Zach, even from the short period of time we've spoken to him, it's clear that Richard is as solid and honest as the earth itself. The only problem with that sort of temperament is that if he's not telling the whole truth, it's because he's convinced himself that's all of it. One objective reality, rigid and dependable, just like himself. And like George Woodman and General Lysander, once he's built his life on that foundation, it'll take massive reconstructing to shift his point of view.

Quite a dilemma they pose, these solid, dependable men of Greenvale... Like a boulder dam blocking a free-flowing river. You can't blame them for not wanting their quiet little town flooded more than it already is, but with the amount of rain they get around here, it's only a matter of time. Anna's murder was just the first small breach, and the cracks are starting to spread...

"Agent York?" Richard waves a callused hand in front of my face. "I asked you a question. Several, actually, and you haven't really answered any of 'em."

"It's just the nature of my job to always be on the asking side of the fence, rarely the other way around. Sorry, Richard," I say.

"No need," he sighs, handing some unseen patron to our right a bottle of beer. "I've chewed your ear longer than anyone who's ever sat at this bar... Probably talked more to you in fifteen minutes than to my ex-wife in the last ten months of our marriage. I'm not usually this chatty, but I dunno. Special circumstances, I guess."

"You've probably been under a lot of stress," I tell him. "You ought to take a vacation. Close up the bar for a little while, spend some time with your son. Things like this always have an upward tendency to get better, you know."

"Yet another glaring piece of evidence that you're not from around here, Agent York. What's with the sunny optimism? Between that and... Well... The way you talk in general, I am truly having a hard time pinning you down." He sighs, rubbing his forehead. "And I always thought of myself as a great judge of character!"

"You must not be that great," I say, expression neutral. "After all, when I came in, you thought I was an uptight Secret Agent with interesting things to say about fashion and sobriety..."

After that comment, which results in a prime example of Richard's tendency to laugh at perfectly reasonable statements, I end up buying a drink from him after all. Add to that a plate of nachos and more dirty looks from 'Ol Samson, and before you know it, I've succeeded in making him forget that I was after his son about anything. I do believe him when he says he has no idea where Quint might have gone; the obvious answer is to Becky's, but when I call her house from the pay phone near the door half an hour later, I'm surprised to hear Emily pick up on the other end.

"Oh, hello, Agent York! Where are you?"

"At the SWERY 65," I reply. "Talking to Richard Dunn. Is Quint there?"

"No, why?"

"Just wondering. We'll catch up to him later. I'm assuming you and George found out that locker 4011 belonged to Becky Ames..."

Stunned silence.

"...Yeah, we did! How did you know?"

Good guess, Zach, though given where Emily is right now, it's pretty obvious.

"Years of training," I reply. "So you're following up? Has Becky said anything?"

"No, I just got here. George and Todd Thorne, the deputy in charge of watching her, they're waiting for me out in the lobby. I'm about to go into her room... Was there anything you wanted me to ask her?"

What do you think, Zach? Does it sound like George forced her hand or what? If I tell her that I was hoping to get a crack at bed-ridden Miss Ames before the police mussed everything up, she'll just think I have it in for George again. Additionally, I'd be surprised if Becky told them anything. If she was ready to talk, she would have asked for us personally.

"Emily, it feels like you're rushing things a bit. You sure Becky is okay with this? Did George put you up to it?"

There's a slight pause, and the voice, when it returns, sounds slightly strained.

"Agent York, George did not put me up to anything. And I'm a little surprised that you would even say that. It's not as if I can't think for myself when you're not around, you know..."

"So you're saying this was all your idea."

"It might have been. Why does it matter? The point is that I'm here now, and if you have any suggestions on what to ask Becky, now would be a great time to give them." Another pause. "Unless you're already on your way over... Maybe to check to make sure we're doing our job properly?"

"No, go ahead. I'm a little busy." Zach, she seemed perfectly happy with us when we parted ways at the junkyard. Something must have happened to make her act this way, but what? I've heard of "that time of the month", but never of it happening so abruptly in the middle of the day.

"Of course you are," Emily sighs. Another long, fretful pause follows, during which I drop more quarters into the phone. "Well, if there's nothing you want me to say in there, I guess I should get going. Oh, and fair warning, York... When you get back to the Department, you might have a little explaining to do."

I light up a cigarette, holding the phone between my head and shoulder. "And how's that?"

"George has been grilling me on your intentions within this case, and as usual I wasn't nearly as well-equipped to describe them as you are. To tell the truth, I've gotten a little fuzzy on some of the details myself... Maybe you could draw up a diagram or something in the briefing room tomorrow."

"Diagrams tend to diminish my sense of the case as a holistic entity, Emily," I say, my exhaled smoke mingling with that of a roomful of strangers. "It's like ruining a piece of art by over-analyzing every paint stroke. Think of those works of classic literature they made you read in high school. Weren't their meanings and symbols clearer, more relevant, when the teacher wasn't trying to shove them down your throat?"

"I never saw it that way," Emily says. "Mr. Frawley, my English prof, always came up with metaphors I hadn't even noticed before."

You're right again, Zach. Perhaps I shouldn't have said anything. Clearly, this is one of those times when you meet someone whose sphere of experience doesn't intersect cleanly with your own. At any rate, it doesn't matter, because this is also one of those times when you wish you carried more loose change. I've completely exhausted my supply of quarters, and our call ends prematurely and without satisfaction... Not to mention, as you so kindly pointed out, I'm down to my last cigarette. Not good, Zach.

I glance back towards Richard, who is looking at us and silently pointing at our half-eaten plate of nachos, mouthing "Are you done with these?" I nod, wishing I could properly say goodbye, but this is an emergency. Because we haven't just run out of quarters, or cigarettes... We've also run out of time. Not to say that we were wasting time by talking to Richard, no; in order to see connections, you need a frame of reference, and that means building a solid observational foundation of your surroundings. In other words, getting to know the locals. Ordering a beer and chatting up the owner of the bar is all part of the investigation, even if someone like George thinks it's lollygagging.

What I mean, Zach, is that our instincts are sounding the alarm. Every case has a clock, and you have to learn how to listen to it if you want to get anything done. Richard told us the Milk Barn closes later on some weekdays; lucky for us, today happens to be one of those days.

Let's take advantage of that discount we were offered, Zach. Maybe they'll even have a special on case-relevant clues in aisle 5... If our luck doesn't run out as well.

* * *

_Want to hang out with the locals yourself? Check out the Sinner's Sandwich RP; character applications accepted any time!_


	54. chapter 50: In the Name of the Rose

In which Quint finds out what it's really like between Heaven and Hell.

* * *

**CHAPTER 50: IN THE NAME OF THE ROSE**

**TIME AND LOCATION: 18:20, Heaven and Hell Gas Station****  
****WEATHER REPORT: Cloudy, chance of showers  
FORTUNE: "The bull grabs its horns back."**

Raging Bull Jack doesn't think of himself as a Greenvale native; more like a tumbleweed that got caught against the side of a fence and stuck there. He coasted through a couple years ago, traveling with the pack: The Iron Rodeo, not so obscure that people didn't know their name, not so infamous that sirens were on their tail 24/7. Just the way Jack likes it. He still has the old hog, too... But now it's a rusted skeleton out back of the gas station, unused since the Incident (he thinks of the word with a capital 'I') that landed him here in the first place.

Does he miss the old days? Riding across states, wrecking mild havoc and causing minor public disturbances... All under the thumb of their leader, Dan "Pale Horse" Robertson, one quart-Cree and meaner than Jack's old man. Difference being that Dan actually shared his beer. That alone was reason enough for Jack to take up with the Rodeo instead of sitting on his ass all day in the garage, wondering when his fairy godmother was going to descend from the oily heavens and offer to turn his dad into a pumpkin and his first wife- a knot he'd tied at age 21-into a supermodel. Never happened. Jack got his nickname and his bike and rode out the next decade in a blur of booze, broads and bail money, until the Incident trapped him in Greenvale for good.

Even though things got marginally better after the Incident, when the Heaven and Hell gas station- and Regina Rose Graceton, who in his mind formed part of the package that had been offered him- fell under his ownership, Jack still sometimes wonders if he isn't still holding out for some miracle... A twist of fate that will give him the satisfaction he can't get none of. Just like in the song.

"Jackie, someone's at the door!" Gina calls from the kitchen. Jack, pancaked out on the sagging sofa in the front room, grunts and raises the volume on the television. Reruns, nothing but reruns. The story of his life.

The knocking continues. "Jackie? Are you gonna get that or what?"

"You get it!" he hollers back. "What do I look like, a friggin' doorman? And grab me a cold one. I'm sweatin' like a jungle pig out here."

Gina, blond and clad in about a square foot of fabric, dutifully sashays around the corner with a bottle from the fridge. She is incapable of walking normally; she's always swaying or cavorting or rocking her hips from point A to B. But lately, even Jack has begun to tire of the sight. She's just repeating herself these days, like the shows on TV.

"I didn't know there were pigs in the jungle, baby," she says, passing him the bottle and making her way towards the pounding at the door. Jack takes a swig and burps immediately after.

"The pigs're the cops. I'm talkin' about the concrete jungle, Gi. 'Sa... Whaddycallit... A met-ee-phor."

"Oh my god," Gina says. "That's so smart. Like, book smart."

"Goddamn right," Jack says with deep satisfaction, and puts his booted feet on the coffee table beside the stacks of bills he's been counting. "Now go find out what the hell whoever's out there wants."

He turns his attention back to the onscreen antics of Bam Margera and Steve-O. He hears Gina opening the busted screen door and exclaim breathlessly, "Well, if it ain't Richard Dunn Jr.! Haven't seen you stop by in a while. How's that rugged old man of yours doin' without the kindness of some female company?" She pronounces "kindness" like "khaaand-ness". Shit like that drives Jack crazy, sometimes in a good way, sometimes not. Today, it's the second one.

"He's doing fine," says a second voice. Young, male and scared. "Is Jack in?"

"He's in the other room, darlin'. Want me to take yer coat for ya?"

"No, I'm good. Thanks anyway, Gina." Footsteps, and Quint Dunn is standing nervously with his hands in his pockets, looking as if he's just invited himself into a grizzly bear den. Jack gives him a lazy stare, not moving except to bring the beer bottle to his lips. Gina drifts by in the background, saying something about breaking out a shrimp platter- the extent of her ability to cook for guests- but neither Jack nor Quint pay her any attention. Jack tips the bottle back and is down to half.

"So whaddya want, kid? I'm busy."

Quint looks down at the table. "That the scratch we made for the last shipment?"

"Yeah, just finished countin' it. Hands off, bub."

"I'm not going anywhere near it, Jack, unless you don't pay what you owe me." Quint holds out a hand, tries to stop it from trembling. "I gave you the Red and I'm assumin' you squeezed out what was needed. Now I want my share."

"What're you in such a hurry for? We ain't goin' nowhere," Jack snorts. Nevertheless, he sits up and starts counting out bills. Quint watches with an expression that loses none of its tension as Jack slowly, painfully slowly, flips each flimsy piece of paper with sausage-like fingers, mumbling numbers under his breath. Gina wanders in with more beer and a half-frozen shrimp ring, which she sets on the table next to the money. A pool of water forms beneath it as the food thaws, creeping towards the stacks of cash, but Jack doesn't seem to notice or care. Finally he holds out a stained roll of bills, which Quint snatches up and feverishly begins to recount.

Jack laughs hoarsely. "Whatsamatter? Can't trust 'ol Raging Bull with his own dough?"

Quint pockets the bills. "Jack, I'm gettin' out."

"Then git already and leave me and Ben Franklin alone. _Jackass_ is on."

"You don't get it. I quit."

"What?" Jack says.

"Huh?" Gina adds, for emphasis.

"I quit," Quint repeats, wondering if his voice is shaking as much as it sounds to his ears. "I can't do this any more. The Basket's empty, the product's all dried up. No supply left."

Jack just stares at him with empty eyes. "Y'know," he says ponderously, "there was this FBI cop who stopped by th' station coupla days ago. He tol' me all about economics, Dunn. About supply and... uhhh... demand. An' word is there's plenty of demand, which means more Ben Franklin, which means we need to keep the supply goin'. I like that rap, Dunn. You gonna screw this up for me or somethin'?"

"I... I don't have more! Are you insane? I just told you-" Quint breaks off as Jack stands up from the couch. "Hey, now, Jack- Please, just listen-"

"Shaddap, craphead," Jack says, and the frightening thing is that his voice is the same dull, unmodulated sneer it's always been, no change in emotion that Quint can discern. His heart sinks as Jack goes on:

"I got truckers comin' in through this town every week and they want more of that powdered red stuff you been comin' up with. They say it ain't cocaine, ain't crystal meth... Had one bozo try to tell me it was plant-based, but who the hell cares, 'long as the truckers and the dough keep rollin' in! Got a few guys even willin' to change up their regular routes to pass by the Heaven and Hell, just for a hit of Red."

The ex-biker throws up his arms in triumph. "It's like we're goin' inter- friggin'-national!"

"My Jack's a regular 'ol businessman, ain't he, Quint?" Gina says liltingly behind him. He feels trapped by the cloying stickiness in her voice.

"Jack, I honestly don't have any more! Wherever it came from, whatever it's made of, it's gone. My supplier left town and didn't tell me where he was going. I swear I'm telling you the truth," Quint lies desperately. "What do you expect me to do, hunt him down? I didn't even know his real name!"

"I jus' want my Red," Jack says with a kind of dull, mindless persistence. "An' I want it by next weekend."

"No! I can't!"

"You're gonna give it to me, or else you owe... Uh... What's he owe us, Gin?"

"Twelve grand, at least!" Gina says, that purring Southern accent sounding strangely high-pitched and harsh. "To make up for all those, uh, whatchamacallits?"

"Financial losses. From da truckers." A stained sneer. "Makin' up for wastin' all them potential customers, is what I call it."

"Yeah!"

"Plus, they ain't gonna be too happy when I tell 'em you couldn't pull through for us, kiddo," Jack rumbles. "They might just get a little upset! An' when I tell 'em where you live, maybe that skinny chick you're always hangin' with too, I dunno what might happen. But nobody'd ever know about it, 'cos truckers, they're just like tumbleweeds, blowin' in and out the other side 'o town. See what I mean?"

"You can't threaten me like this!" Quint cries. "The FBI is in Greenvale and he knows about the Basket! How are you going to hide all this from him?"

"My hubby," Gina says proudly, "don't talk to no cops. And you don't either, do ya, Quint?"

Jack ambles up, his beer gut preceding him, until he and Quint are nearly face to face. His breath is a suffocating waft of beer and cigarette smoke.

"That's right," he whispers, "and it ain't the pig you oughta be worried about, craphead."  
Quint feels tears welling from someplace dangerously close to the surface of his being; a terrified, animalistic part of his soul that is screaming without reason for him to run, run, run away. Just get on his bike and finally do what he'd been wanting to do ever since his parents divorced: Keep going down the road until he hit either the ocean or the answers. But he knows that's not going to happen. Sometimes, to run away from something takes more courage than sticking with it. And he is stuck, man, like a fly in a spider's web.

And Becky. What will he do about Becky?

"Have a seat, kiddo," Jack is saying, gesturing with mock grandeur towards the couch. "And I'm gonna tell you what we're gonna do... We're business partners after all, right? We gotta work together."

Quint stands there, and as he stands there he feels another spider behind him, and its name is Gina. She sidles up and gives him a little push towards her husband, and even though he can't see her face, he knows she's smiling that glassy, vapid smile of hers, her pink bow lips hiding little sharp teeth like mandibles. Her breath pools sinuously on the back of his neck.

"C'mon, baby," she croons. "Do it for me... Do it for the Rose."

And he does.

* * *

_George writes questionable fanfiction about his favorite soap opera, Agent York dates men for Vincent Price, a lawyer talks to his carrot cake, and someone with a rather ashen complexion is terrorizing the people of Greenvale once more... Just another day in the Sinner's Sandwich RP. Want to join in? Character applications accepted any time!_

REMOVE *s  
**http:/*sinnerssandwich*.proboards.*com/*index.*cgi**


	55. chapter 51: Ramones Encore

Sorry about the week-long delay; I could have posted chapter 52 as it was already finished, but as well all know, 51 comes before 52, and I wasn't finished 51. You know how it is.

Anyway, chapter 51. In which I don't really feel like it's spoiling too much to say that this is the second-to-last time you will ever see Becky in normal condition.**  


* * *

  
CHAPTER 51: RAMONES ENCORE**

**TIME AND LOCATION: 18:20, Becky's house****  
****WEATHER REPORT: Cloudy, chance of showers  
FORTUNE: "After the Rose comes a Thorne in the side."**

The door opens and a broad, rugged police officer with tousled brown hair leans out and says with a leer, "Hey, Doll Face, try not to hit the doorframe with those love handles of yours. Haven't seen you at the gym in a while. Where you been? Too busy trying to meet your candy bar quota?"

"In case you haven't noticed, _Todd_, there's been a murder investigation going on," Emily growls, stepping into the lobby. She almost pulls up short at how dark it is, but George is coming through the door after her, and she's forced to step aside. Todd backs up too, even though there's plenty of room; George's presence tends to draw respect even from the most gormless of her colleagues, Officer Todd being a prime example. She sticks her tongue out at him while George's back is turned, and he returns the sentiment with a rude hand gesture. Todd is the only person in the world for whom she'd stoop to such levels of immaturity.

"So how's our young charge doing?" George asks, nodding towards the closed door at the other end of the room. A light, fast-paced beat can be heard from behind it, and Emily thinks she even recognizes some of the words. Todd shrugs his beefy linebacker's shoulders, the look on his face indicating that something's not right, but damned if he knows what it is.

"She's doing fine, sir, but she ain't talking. Not to me, anyway. She's just been sitting in her room, playing her music at full volume since I got here. I make sure she doesn't lock her door and she doesn't seem to care when I go to check on her, but she's barely moved from that bed. Doesn't even look up when I come in. I told her you guys were coming and she only shrugged and said 'Do your worst'. Whatever that means..."

George nods grimly. "I see. Well, in that case, best we send in a woman to deal with her. Emily? Are you ready?"

She nods just as the kitchen phone begins to ring. Todd goes to answer it, but Emily is nimbler; she beats him to the punch and picks up the reciever.

"This is Deputy Emily Wyatt, Ames residence," she says brightly. "Who's calling? ...Oh, hello, Agent York! Where are you?"

She listens to his reply as George and Todd appear in the doorway, watching her with semi-quizzical expressions. George's eyes narrow slightly when he hears who she's talking to. "No, I just got here," she says, wishing they'd stop hovering over her shoulder. "George and Todd Thorne, the officer in charge of watching her, they're waiting for me out in the lobby. I'm about to go into her room... Was there anything you wanted me to ask her?"

After that, the conversation takes a downward turn. Emily hangs up with a knotty feeling in the pit of her stomach, the same feeling she gets when she doesn't have anything but leftover frosted cruellers for supper. She passes by George on her way to Becky's bedroom and he puts a firm hand on her shoulder.

"Sounds like you handled him pretty well this time, Em," he says, not exactly approvingly, but managing to give the definite impression that he would like to see more of this attitude in the future. "Remember, he is on our home turf. He may be officially in charge, but in the end, we'll be the ones picking up after him. It's best if he knows we won't let ourselves be pushed around for no good reason."

"Was that Agent Morgan? Awesome!" Todd pipes up, ignoring the stormy look George turns on him. "When do I get to meet him in person? I've never deen a real FBI guy outside of TV and movies before!"

"He's not what you think, trust me," Emily says dryly, one hand on the doorknob to Becky's bedroom. She glances briefly at George. "And he prefers to be called York."

Without waiting to see George's reaction, she opens the door. Immediately, the music she'd felt pulsing through the knob hits her eardrums like a patter of sonic hail. Quickly she closes the door behind her, turns around and leans against it, letting her eyes get accustomed to the darkness. Eventually she percieves a black shape huddled on the bed, on top of the covers. There is no indication that it is anything more than a shapeless pile of clothes...

Emily looks at the window, sees that it's shut tight and locked from the inside. Relieved, she looks back at the shape, but it remains motionless, unresponsive to her presence.

_I saw her walking down the street  
He jumped down, he knocked her off her feet  
And then I knew it was the end of her_

"Becky?" Emily says, raising her voice above that of the singer's. "It's me, Deputy Wyatt. Todd told you we were coming, right? Me and Sheriff Woodman?"

_He's gonna kill that girl  
He's gonna kill that girl  
He's gonna kill that girl tonight_

She is almost surprised when the pile of clothes turns out to be, in fact, a human being. It stirs as if awakening from a slumber of Rip Van Winkle-esque proportions, and a pale crescent of face shows itself through a crack in the bedsheets.

"Hi, Emily," says Becky, her voice creeping like a little brown mouse through the storm of music coming from the CD player on the foot of the bed. "Make yourself... comfortable."

A white hand, attached to a thin wrist, appears to glide disembodied through the air. It fiddles with a dial and the volume drops just enough that Emily can make herself heard without straining too much. Moving carefully, as if trying not to startle a deer in the woods, she comes over to the side of the bed and sits down on the edge. From this vantage point, she can now see two dark, doe-like eyes staring at her from inside the pile of bedsheets.

_When I saw her walking down the street  
My heart stood still and skipped a beat  
Then he knocked her on the floor  
But he wanted just a little bit more_

"How are you doing?" Emily says, as softly as she is able. "Have you been getting along with Officer Thorne?"

"He's all right," Becky says listlessly. "I don't talk to him much."

"Do you feel like talking now?"

"Oh, is that what you're here for," Becky says, and it's not a question. Emily permits herself to scoot a little closer.

"We're just here to help. Your protection is what matters most right now. Do you... Do you feel safe, Becky?"

_He's gonna kill that girl  
He's gonna kill that girl  
He's gonna kill that girl tonight_

"I guess," Becky says. "It doesn't really matter. You can tell Agent York I don't need bodyguards any more. I'm sorry I've been wasting your precious time."

"Don't worry about it. It's barely been twenty-four hours since we put you on watch," Emily soothes. "And Agent York isn't in command of the police department, Sheriff Woodman is. York just made the recommendation."

"Sure he did," Becky says, without malice, or any sort of emotion. "I mean, it's not like he's in charge of Anna's case or anything."

Emily pauses, then says the thing to which she doesn't really want to hear an answer.

"...Would you... rather that Agent York be here instead? Would you feel more comfortable talking to him?"

"I told him everything I have to say. There's nothing left."

"What did you two talk about?"

Becky laughs mirthlessly. "Didn't he tell you everything? I thought you guys were supposed to be working together on this."

"Only a few things. He said you told him to talk to Quint."

"What, is that all?" Becky's voice is dripping with sarcasm. "Wow, with this kind of cooperation, Anna's murder is gonna get solved in no time! If I were her, I wouldn't hold my breath... Oh wait, she can't fucking help but hold her breath, because she's _dead_. My bad!"

"Do you want me to leave?" Emily says.

_When I saw her walking down the street  
My heart stood still and skipped a beat  
Then he knocked her on the floor  
But he wanted just a little bit more_

"...No," Becky whispers. Emily can barely hear her. "I'm sorry. Please stay."

"That's okay," Emily says, hiding her bemusement. "I'll sit here as long as you want me to. You don't have to talk if it makes you feel uncomfortable."

They sit and listen to the music for a few minutes, until the song finally ends. To Emily's private relief, only silence follows, and Becky makes no move to reactivate the player. Just as Emily is beginning to wonder if Becky has somehow fallen asleep, huddled in her blankets with her arms around her knees and her eyes closed, her voice comes once more through the darkness. Emily is struck by how hollow Becky sounds, how empty of feeling... She also has no idea how to answer the question.

"Emily... Do you think I'm pretty?"

"Of course you are," is Emily's automatic response, but she has to think for a moment longer before she can confirm it in her head. She hasn't met Becky very often outside of the Milk Barn, and now, surrounded by a musty cloak of shadows, it's even harder to tell what she looks like. But Emily does recall a certain sensitivity about Becky, with her large eyes, almost too-thin figure, and dark brown hair long enough to shield her pale face when she wants it to. Maybe pretty isn't the right word to describe her... Almost as soon as she has the thought, it's as if Becky picks up on it instantly.

"I didn't think so," she says, too emphatically to contradict right away. "Even Quint doesn't think I am."

"Did he tell you that himself?" Emily says, a little shocked. She's met Richard's son plenty of times at the SWERY65, and it doesn't sound like something he would say.

"No, of course he wouldn't. But I can see it in his eyes when he looks at me." Becky shrugs in a way that reminds Emily of Agent York, for some reason. "The reason we were meant to be together is because he doesn't actually give a crap. My looks don't matter to him. He says I'm beautiful, and it's only true when he says it. But he knows I'm not pretty."

Emily has no idea what to say to this. Fortunately, Becky keeps going.

"It's the same thing with Anna. She saw things in people... Things even they weren't aware of. She had this ability to draw it out of someone, just by being herself. You just had to pay attention to what made her happy when you were around her. If you just counted up all the things you did that made her smile, then you'd know what it was that made _you_ special. Because it made Anna laugh, and nobody else, so you were different."

"It sounds like she was a very good friend," Emily says lamely.

"We kind of drifted apart in high school, but we'd known each other since we were little," Becky says, a dream-like softness slipping into her voice. She speaks as if Emily is no longer in the room. "When I was ten, we made a picture book together... She wrote it, I did the illustrations. It was about a rabbit and a willow tree who were best friends, but it was really about ourselves. See, Anna had this nickname for me... 'Rebecca Rabbit', because she said I was 'so jumpy'. And Anna was the only person I let call me that, because it made her laugh, and I loved her laugh. If Diane tried to call me Rebecca, I'd claw her eyes out."

"And Anna was the willow tree?" Emily asks. She sees Becky nod from inside her blanket coccoon.

"Yeah. She was always fascinated by willow trees, because they don't grow around Greenvale. It's like they're allergic to this place or something. She said... She said they were too beautiful for this town, and that someday she was going to move to a place where she could dance under a willow tree every day. That was her dream, until she decided on her modeling career..."

Becky stares at Emily with dark burning eyes, still dry despite the cracking in her voice. "_That_ was what she was good at... Not school, not modeling, not even art or sports or cooking or all of the other things people do... She was good at _people_. And now she's dead, and nobody but me and Quint know her secret."

"I know," Emily says. "Now that you've told me."

"You don't know anything," Becky says, with such sad certainty it almost breaks Emily's heart. "Nobody in this town knows anything."

Emily surprises herself by countering, "Agent York does."

She can almost feel Becky stiffen, pulling her arms around herself a fraction of an inch tighter. "What makes you say that?"

"I don't know." This conversation makes Emily feel like she's running headlong down a steep hill, unable to check her momentum. "I just know... I believe... that it's true."

Becky seems to consider this for a moment, then she nods.

"Yeah. I guess you're right. But you know what? FBI agent or not, that guy couldn't make a cup of tea to save his life."

They both grin despite the somber atmosphere, Becky's teeth flashing startlingly in the darkness. Emily is relieved to feel the steep hill bottoming out under her feet, checking her speed, gradually slowing to a comfortable pace. All the tension seems to have drained from the room, as if a plug has been pulled.

After their smiles fade, Becky looks thoughtful. "You know, I had a funny dream with him in it... Agent York, I mean. I asked him the same question I asked you. About whether he thought I was pretty."

"And what did he say?"

"He told me the truth."

Emily feels one corner of her mouth quirk upward despite herself. "He tends to do that, yes."

"That wasn't the funny part of the dream, though..." Again, Becky's voice is getting more and more ethereal, dreamy, slowed-down. For the first time, Emily sees how close the girl is to the edge of sleep, the shadows under her eyes no longer just a trick of the light. "The funniest part... what really made it weird... was..."

A prolonged yawn and a rustle of bedsheets, and Becky finishes sleepily:

"...funny part was... I dreamed of him, before I even met him..."

Outside the bedroom, Emily shutting the door softly behind her, George and Officer Thorne are waiting for her in the lobby. She walks towards them, wondering why her palms are so sweaty and trying to estimate without success how long she'd been in there for. As is his custom, George gets right to the point.

"Well? Did she reveal anything we don't already know?"

Emily doesn't hesitate. "Nope," she says, managing to sound firm with just a touch of disappointment. "Not a bit. She fell asleep before I could ask her anything."

Todd looks incredulous. "Then what did you spend all that time in there for?"

_None of your business, you insensitive clod_, Emily sends telepathically. If they'd been alone together, without the Sheriff present, she wouldn't hesitate in saying it out loud; she is quite used to trading barbs of this sort with her arch-nemesis. Instead she says politely, "Well, Officer Thorne, seeing as we're dealing with the victim's grieving best friend, I didn't think a flat-out interrogation would be appropriate. But if you're really looking to lay down the law on an emotionally vulnerable young woman in mourning, you've had all day to do so."

Todd rolls his eyes. George just grunts.

"Guess it wasn't a total waste of time, if you offered Becky some semblance of solace. It must be hard for her. On a practical note, do you think it's still worth it for her to be under police protection?"

Emily hesitates. "...She's still feeling a little scared. Best to keep it up for now."

George gazes at her with a typically unreadable expression. "All right," he says, tipping his hat forward over his eyes. "It's your call, Emily."

He turns to Todd. "Did you hear that, Thorne? Think you can hold up here 'till tomorrow?"

Todd sighs, but not too loudly. "In this creepy old house? Sure, no problem. I'm tellin' you though, this place is a security nightmare."

"Like you would know!" Emily scoffs, unable to help herself. "What TV show did you pluck that line from?"

As they bicker back and forth, parting blows even as Emily follows George out of the house and back to the cruiser, Emily feels alternating swells of guilt, resolve and triumph in her chest. Guilt, because she didn't tell George even a quarter of what Becky really said back in that bedroom. Resolve, because she's quite sure most of it has no direct bearing on the investigation, and wouldn't be worth putting in a report anyway. Like the Sheriff had said, she'd provided a measure of personal comfort, and that was enough to justify the visit.

As for the triumph, it lies folded snugly in a pocket of her uniform, a slight rectangular pressure as she stoops to get into the car. George is saying something to her about grabbing a quick bite to eat before she goes to meet York at nine, and even as she replies in the affirmative, her mind can't help but return to that darkened bedroom... Back to the look on Becky's face as Emily got up to leave, her silent stare... And the cool, marble-like smoothness of her hand as she slipped Emily the envelope, pale lips parted as if to say something, and nothing coming out.

* * *

NOTE: Todd Thorne is an OC from the Sinner's Sandwich RP, played by Whitney, who runs the Welcome to Greenvale fansite. He does have an in-game model, though; you can find him hanging around the police station, where he doesn't really do anything except vaguely resemble William Zabka.


	56. chapter 52: Milk Barn

In which the search for Police brand continues.

* * *

**CHAPTER 52: MILK BARN  
****TIME AND LOCATION: 19:38, Milk Barn****  
****WEATHER REPORT: Cloudy, chance of showers  
FORTUNE: "An offer you can't refuse, re-use or recycle."**

"Keith, hon, I thought I told you to take out this garbage!"

"What?"

"And the storage room is still a mess! Dear, did you hear what I just told you?"

"Wha-a-a-a-at?"

Lily folds her arms and tries to look stern. "Hon, you know this is the fourth or fifth time I've asked you. If you're having trouble hearing me, maybe you should turn down this music."

Her husband bobs his head up and down, snapping his fingers, and gives her that familiar look, like a puppy dog who doesn't understand why its owner won't allow it to sleep on the bed. His booted feet are up on the counter next to the cash register, something she usually doesn't tolerate, but there hasn't been a customer in the Milk Barn for the last three hours. She'll let it slide, just this once.

"Why would I do something like that?" he asks, never once stopping the frantic rhythm of head and hands. "This music _rocks_!"

"I know, dear, but you can rock out any day of the week. Surely you can spare just five minutes on chores?" She clasps her hands and gives him that sweet, sweet gaze she knows he can't resist. "Pretty please, Keith?"

"Oh, okay," he sighs, getting reluctantly to his feet. Suddenly his head whips up; he stares out the front window of the store, his bristly hair seeming to stick out even more than it usually does. He points like an excited little kid towards the empty parking lot, where someone is pulling in.

"Oh my god! That car is totally off-the-charts _wicked_! Lilly, are you seeing this? Check it out!"

"I'm looking, hon," Lilly says, giving up. It's going to be at least another hour now before he gets around to doing whatever it was she told him to do; he has the attention span of a hyperactive five year old. No, that's not quite true, she thinks; the twins definitely had more focus at that age than their father does now. She's contemplating just taking out the trash herself when the door opens and a man in a dark suit and incongruously bright pink tie steps in. He nods to Keith, whose jaw is hanging open.

"It's Mr. FBI himself!" Keith exclaims. "How you doin', bro? That's not _your_ sick set of wheels out there, is it?"

"Hello, Keith, Lilly," Agent York says politely, not exactly brushing off Keith's excitement, just letting it dry on the line for one more moment. "Yes, that's my car all right. General Lysander just had it repaired. I think you'll agree that he did an amazing job."

"No kidding, man! Say, you think maybe he could fix guitars just as good?"

"Ah... I'm not sure, Keith. That's something you'll have to ask the General himself. Something tells me he's not really into rock and roll, though."

"You really think so, FBI?" Keith bounces his leather-clad shoulders up and down in time to the music pouring from the boom box on the counter. "Who wouldn't be into rock and roll? It's like the pulse of life itself, man! You agree with me, right?"

Lilly walks up, sensing the need for a rescue. "Hullo, hon! Welcome to our humble convenience store. This is the first time you've stopped by the Milk Barn, isn't it?"

"I'm afraid so," York says, smiling at her. "Things have been rather busy as of late, I'm afraid. It certainly wasn't for lack of desire that I didn't visit sooner."

"That's perfectly all right, hon. Don't forget, everything in the store is 50% off where you're concerned. Was there anything in particular you needed?"

York glances around, the left side of his face turning towards her. He'd be quite the looker, Lilly thinks with some naughtiness, if not for that horrible scar. It's none of her business, but she can't help but wonder where it came from. She hopes Keith won't be too forward about it; he tends to blurt things out without thinking first.

"As a matter of fact, yes. Do you carry Police brand cigarettes?"

He reaches into his suit and shows her an empty, crumpled carton that looks like he'd dropped it in a muddy field somewhere. He must have picked up on her puzzled expression, because he adds, "This was the last pack I had with me after I crashed my car driving into town. I was trying to be conservative, but I finished off the last of them just ten minutes ago. I suppose I could get the Bureau to send me more, but it'll be easier if I can get them here... And I've been checking every vending machine since I got here with no luck."

Keith ambles up, straightening the collar of his leather jacket, and inspects the carton as well. Lilly shakes her head.

"I'm sorry, Agent York, but we don't carry this brand any more. We stopped requesting new shipments years ago. Even back then, they weren't that popular... In fact, the only reason we still kept them in stock was because the old Sheriff used to smoke them all the time."

York's eyes snap to hers, seeming to flash with some hidden light.

"Harold Finch?"

"Yes, how did you know his name?"

"Divine coincidence; or, rather, synchronicity." York raises a finger, Keith looking from it to the ceiling as if there's something of interest there. "You see, Lilly, Keith; this is exactly why I need these cigarettes so badly. I always have the most amazing luck when that smoke fills my lungs... Then I exhale, and it's like the doors of the universe start to unlock for me. You ever had that feeling?"

"Woah, man, that's really deep," Keith says reverently, staring at Agent York as if there's a halo glowing around his head. "And I totally know what you're talking about. Like, back when Lilly and I were still dating, she was totally wild for that kind of-"

"Sweetie, I thought I told you to take out the garbage."

"But baby, I-"

"Keith," Lilly says, in that half-smiling, half-dangerous tone she reserves for these sorts of situations. "Unless you have something else you need to let Agent York know about..."

"Oh man! Yeah, I do, actually!" Keith smacks his forehead, then runs his hand through his hair, disturbing whatever order might have been put in place by Lilly's careful administrations earlier that day with a comb and brush. Agent York watches with an air of amused patience. Keith holds up the carton, shakes it like a maraca.

"These cigarettes. We had a ton of them left over even after we stopped selling them, so I'm pretty sure there's a box of 'em still in the storage room."

"Is that so?" York perks up. "That sounds promising. What do you think, Lilly?"

"I think Keith should probably have taken care of that room ages ago," Lilly says ruefully as Keith blushes beside her. "But if it means that you'll go home a happy customer, then I suppose it was all for the best..."

"Yeah! The boss lady says it's cool!" Keith pumps his fist in the air, then turns and whispers confidentially to York, "Sometimes I call her the boss lady. She doesn't think it rocks, but I totally do."

"You know, hon," Lilly says thoughtfully, putting a hand to her chin in mock seriousness, "that storage room has been in such a state for the last few years. It hasn't been organized in a while. Maybe while you two are in there, you could do some tidying up for me?"

She laughs as the two men shuffle uncomfortably on the spot. Even Agent York, for all his sophistication, is no better than her husband when it comes to the idea of doing menial tasks.

"Aw, c'mon, Lil!" Keith pleads. "It's Agent York's first visit here. We can't make him do chores'n stuff, it'll probably ruin his concentration on the case. Right, dude?"

"Well... Not really," York sighs, tapping one finger against his collar and frowning at the ceiling. "The case is proceeding as smoothly as can be expected. I'd be lying, however, if I said I didn't have any spare time at the moment."

He tilts his head down and looks at Lilly, who clasps her hands together under her chin and says, eyes bright, "Oh, hon, please don't think I'm trying to impose on you. It's just that, well, I've been trying to get Keith to clean that storage room for almost as long as we've had this store running. I'd do it myself, but there's so many heavy boxes that need to be moved, and-"

"All right, Lilly. You got me." Agent York holds up a hand, then makes a whisking motion to the side as if sweeping her concern out of existence. "Besides, it's the least I can offer in exchange for the discount and trying to help me track down those cigarettes. If we really do find them, I'll be in you and your husband's debt."

Keith groans, "Aw man, the boss lady strikes again," but Lilly only gets more radiant, beaming at Agent York with a look of pure gratitude.

"Hon, you are a superhero, make no mistake about it. If you need anything, just holler and I'll come running."

"I'm no hero," York smiles. "Just your friendly neighborhood profiler." He turns to Keith, who seems torn between the dullness of the duty thrust upon him and the prospect of spending time alone with a real live FBI agent. York claps his hands together and says, trying to muster up some semblance of enthusiasm:

"Well, Keith, shall we check out this storage room of yours? Call me optimistic, but I'm sure we'll have the place all in order in no time. After all, how bad could it be?"

* * *

Reviews would be... exonerating!


End file.
